


Vermillion

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sally Donovan is in love?” he sang out the word love. “My brother is in love? The man who wears isolation like armor?”</p><p>Sequel to The Lester Rule. Spoilers for Season 3, but really about as accurate as that season's timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing again! Like The Lester Rule, I'm going to try and update weekly, barring real life dragging me off into the bushes. I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Also massive kudos to GS Jenner for helping me beta and Brit-pick this, as well as listening to me whine about writing and offering fantastic ideas for me to play with. Her business cards need to say "Professional Muse".

_There really is no place like London_ , Sally grinned to herself as she ran through her favorite trails in Hampstead Heath.

She had enjoyed her time in Chicago, learning about different methods of policing, as well as exploring the city and meeting new people, but there’s nothing like returning home and sleeping in one’s own bed and returning to familiar ground.

She picked up her pace and continued down the trail, singing along to her MP3 player under her breath, feeling her worries fade away under the sound of Pharrell Williams crooning in her ear -- _My level is too high to bring me down._ True, Lake Michigan had offered an amazing vista to go running along, but there was something comforting about the Heath that just made her feel centered.

 _It really is nice to be home_ , she thought to herself as she finished her run and stretched. Since the weather was so nice, Sally decided to walk back to her flat, with a detour to her favorite fish and chip shop.

If there was something that she missed greatly while in the States, it was a proper fish fry. Maybe it was the lack of malt vinegar, or the way they fried things, but the American fish fries just weren’t the same. And above all else, her favorite chip shop wasn’t located in Chicago.

True, Codrophina was a little hole in the wall. The owner had a little bar set up in the front as a minor concession for people who wanted to eat in the building, but that was it, and the entire thing had a slightly greasy feel to it, but in Sally’s opinion it was the best place for fish and chips. Which she was going to indulge in right now.

 _I deserve this_ , she thought to herself as she sauntered into the shop. _After all, I just did a four mile run._

Apparently the thought of fried fish was so enticing that she failed to notice a certain customer, until she finished placing her order.

“Sergeant Donovan,” a familiar voice, reeking of privilege and snobbery rang through the shop. “Welcome back home.”

Sally turned around. The beaky fellow, with receding hairline and posh suit was standing against the counter with a thin smile on his face. An umbrella dangled off one wrist and in his hands was a container of fish and chips, as well as a small order of fresh cockles.

“Mycroft Holmes,” she smiled back, feeling a bit generous with her time. “I didn’t realize that you indulged in this sort of thing. Bit off the beaten track for you isn’t it?”

“Really, this place, despite the obvious pun for a name, has some of the best fresh cockles in the city,” Mycroft mused, then stabbed one with a tiny fork and popped it into his mouth daintily. “I don’t indulge often, but sometimes one must have a bit of fried fish and chips.”

“It’s law,” Sally said, after she accepted her order. “I believe you’re kicked out of the country and sent to Canada if you don’t eat a certain quotient.” She drizzled a bit of malt vinegar on everything and then popped a chip in her mouth.

Mycroft’s face curdled. “You must drown your order in that? You realize you’re losing the taste of the fish itself.”

“Yup,” Sally’s lips popped on the “p” sound, before she took a bite of her cod. “You don’t understand. I’ve just spent two weeks in Chicago and apparently they think drowning their fish in tartar sauce is a good idea. That’s even more hideous.”

Mycroft shook his head as he took a bite of his fish. “Americans,” he sighed after swallowing his bite. “If it doesn’t come slathered in some sort of mayonnaise-derived sauce and can feed a small village, it’s not food.”

She nodded, her mouth too full to speak. While she was presenting a calm exterior, inwardly Sally could feel her suspicions rising. _What game are you playing?_ they whispered.

True, at their last interaction, Mycroft had asked her out for coffee and she declined, but that had been years ago. After Sherlock Holmes pulled his disappearing act, but before Molly and Sally helped him (well, mostly Molly -- Sally just turned a blind eye to everything), and definitely before Sherlock’s name was cleared and he returned from the dead. Before everything.

It had been a strange time, but nothing that Sally regretted. Sally and Molly got a holiday in America, finally spending time in Vegas -- a proper place for gambling in Sally’s opinion -- and luckily returned to find their jobs intact. Philip Anderson hadn’t fared so well, but Sally suspected that some of the guilt regarding Sherlock may have come into play -- guilt which Sally never had, given what she knew.

During those years she introduced Molly to Tom, hoping that Molly would be interested in moving on. While it seemed fine, the engagement pretty much ended the minute Sherlock returned from the dead. Not that Sally was surprised. She knew where Molly’s heart lay and poor Tom never really stood a chance. Sally knew the “meat dagger” was an ill omen, when Molly told her. That was definitely the final nail in that coffin.

But that didn’t prevent her from sending Molly bad romance novel clips using “meat dagger” in them to torment her during the breakup. Because that’s what friends do for each other to try and distract them from the bad news in their lives.

“Are you pleased to be back home?” Mycroft’s voice jolted her out of her reverie.

Sally nodded. “Of course,” she said.

Mycroft nodded, then threw away his empty container. “I must be going,” he said. “Have a good day Sergeant Donovan.”

“You too,” Sally said, watching him exit and then enter a sleek and foreboding car. _Shit,_ she thought ruefully _. One nice thing about America -- not as much drama._

~*~

“So what happened?” Molly’s eyes were bright with amusement as she heard about Sally’s encounter. It might have been sadistic glee, but Sally suspected it was the pints they had been knocking back  for the past two hours.

Sally leaned back on the bar and sighed. “Then he left,” she shrugged as she sipped her ale. “That’s about it. It was just weird.”

“Could be a coincidence,” Molly mused.

“Never thought he was the type to eat fried fish,” Sally added. “Always thought he was one of those types to habit those restaurants that serve small bits of food with lots of white sauce or gentlemen’s club food.”

Molly visibly shuddered. “That just sounds awful. No one eats at those places. They just pick at their food and try to appear polite. Then they go to the chippy.”

Sally laughed. “It just feels weird,” she repeated. “I mean I’ve habited Codrophenia for awhile now and I’ve never seen him there. Why now?”

“Maybe he just discovered it,” Molly said.

“Molly,” Sally looked at her seriously. “He’s a fuckin’ Holmes. You would really think that?”

Molly’s lips pursed and the corners quirked up in a smile. “You have a point,” she giggled. “Mycroft Holmes is interested in you,” she said in a sing-song voice. “He liiiiikkkeeesss you. He wants to marry you.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “He’s Mycroft Holmes. From what I know of him, he doesn’t do that sort of thing. Odds are he’s just probably seeking an in with the Yard again to make sure that we play nice with baby brother.”

“He’s got Greg for that,” Molly shot back. “Mycroft and Sally sitting in a tree --”

“I swear, I am never letting you have three pints in two hours ever again,” Sally groused.

Molly giggled, then leaned forward. “OK, so seriously,” she began. “Speaking as an observer of the Northern European Holmes, I think that you’ve piqued his interest.”

Sally snorted.

“Hear me out,” Molly leaned forward, eyes slightly unfocused. “You turned him down for coffee two years ago, and as far as we can tell, you haven’t been in contact since.”

“There hasn’t been a need to,” Sally interrupted. “He was probably busy trying to keep his brother alive and not doing something stupid.”

“But you rejected him,” Molly said. “That’s a mystery right there.”

Sally closed her eyes and swore. “Dammit, you have a point,” she said. “So you’re saying that if I concede to coffee with him, perhaps the mystery will evaporate and then he’ll leave me alone?”

Molly grinned. “Do you really want him to leave you alone?”

Sally rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

“Oh come on,” the grin became lascivious. “You saw that article that girl sold about Sherlock -- seven times a night? Don’t you wonder what the big brother can do?”

“You do realize that seven times a night isn’t a selling point? It’s not the quantity, but the quality, and I’d wager at seven times a night it was something akin to a bad ska record -- simultaneously too long and too short.”

Both women laughed at that.

“You know it’s been years since you even had a serious suitor,” Molly said once the laughter died down. “It might not be a bad thing to try him out.”

“He’s a Holmes,” Sally replied. “And the British government and scary as hell.”

“The government needs to get laid,” Molly muttered into her drink. “Given the state of politics, everyone needs a good orgasm.”

“Oh my God,” Sally shrieked. “Admit it. You just want me to date him just so you have something to distract you from your breakup.”

Molly looked up at her and grinned. “A bit,” she said. “I need someone to have romantic drama that isn’t me for once.”

“Bitch,” Sally replied, flicking a bit of ale in Molly’s face. “This is for the ‘meat dagger’ e-mails isn’t it?”

Molly hummed, before the grin got bigger. “A bit.”

“Besides, I don’t even know how to contact him and spending all my time at a fry shop is dangerous for my health.”

“You know,” Molly’s grin threatened to look like the Joker’s, “I always think that spray painting in front of a CCTV would be a good way to get his attention. How about ‘DO YOU FANCY A CUPPA COFFEE MYCROFT HOLMES?’” Molly’s hands spread out in front of her as if she was spreading the tag along a wall.

“I’m a fuckin’ cop Molly,” Sally snorted. “And he knows how to find me and he’s decided not to contact me, so I think the message is fuckin’ clear.”

“I could tell Sherlock to have him call you.”

Sally fixed a hard stare at her friend. “No,” she snapped. “We are not getting Sherlock Holmes involved in my love life.”

“OK,” Molly put her hands up. “I won’t say a word.”

“Molly,” Sally growled.

“Promise,” she replied.

~*~

It was another evening, another lab sample for Sherlock Holmes. That is, until Molly Hooper burst into the morgue with a glazed eyes and a mischievous grin on her face.

“Sherlock!” she said brightly.

He turned from the microscope and looked over at her. “Molly,” he said. “Isn’t this a bit late for you? And are you drunk?”

She nodded, the bounced over to him, giddy with excitement. “I need you to deduce me,” she said.

“Why?” one eyebrow raised in puzzlement. Was this a prank of some type?

“Because,” Molly leaned forward, invading his space, “I have something I’m dying to tell you, but I made a promise that I wouldn’t.” She attempted to flutter her eyelashes, but it instead looked like she got a bit of dust in her eyes. “Deduce me like one of your French women, Sherlock.”

A feral grin spread across his face as he looked her over. “Well, it’s obvious you’re pissed, given that you just used an Internet meme line, so you’ve been out for drinks. Your breath smells of ale, but not the usual store-bought brands, so you couldn’t have been drinking at home. No, this ale is only sold in the pub, so you’ve been out tonight and had a few pints,” he drew nearer and studied her expression.

Molly let out a giggle and nodded, before biting her lip to keep quiet.

Sherlock stood up and walked around her. “Knowing this brand, it’s only sold at a few pubs in the area. You don’t like drinking alone at the pub so obviously you were with a friend, no doubt Sergeant Donovan of the Yard, who is a dear compatriot of yours.”

“Boooorrrrriiiinnngg,” Molly sang out. “That is pretty obvious because when I go out to the pub, who else do I go with? Besides, Tom, who I’m not with anymore. Come on smarty-pants. Impress me.”

Sherlock huffed, then moved closer to study her. “Judging by your giddy behavior, I’d say it’s something that you’re dying to tell me, but you’ve been sworn to secrecy. It can’t be anything awful, because you’re not the type to spread bad news. So it’s something involving Sally Donovan -- she’s sworn you to secrecy.”

Molly giggled, then nodded. “Warmer.”

Sherlock leaned back and thought. “It’s got to involve me or someone close to me, because otherwise why would you come to me to talk? You don’t gossip with me.”

“You find it dull --” Molly interrupted.

“It is dull,” he said. “So this must be something that you believe will bring me personal joy. Now it can’t involve John, given that neither of them interact with each other much and if they do so, it’s strained civility. So its not him. Is it Lestrade?”

Molly said nothing. Sherlock’s grin got more unholy.

“Of course not -- he’s her mentor. The relationship they have is more collegial than anything else,” his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “OH! OH! Mycroft?”

Molly pursed her lips and her eyes widened as she nodded.

“Sally Donovan is in love?” he sang out the word love. “My brother is in love? The man who wears isolation like armor?”

A smile crept across Molly’s mouth, but she shook her head.

“No,” he said. “You’re right. The only interaction they had was during my disappearance and that was two years ago. So it’s still too early for proclamations of undying devotion and that ilk. Are we talking about a date? She wants to ask him out on a date?”

Molly’s body was practically vibrating with glee as she shook her head.

“Lower commitment?”

There was a nod.

“Coffee?”

Molly nodded, before leaping at him and hugging him. “That’s a bingo!” she squealed.

He was as rigid as a rail in her arms. Molly squeaked and pulled back. “Sorry,” she stammered.

“No,” he said, arms slowly wrapping around her waist -- strictly to keep her from falling, he told himself. “It’s fine.”

She snuggled closer -- apparently drinking made her more ebullient and physically affectionate, Sherlock noted. “Now, you didn’t hear this from me,” she said. “I promised Sally I wouldn’t tell you, but I didn’t promise that you wouldn’t deduce it.”

“And what do you expect me to do with this information?”

“Just tell Mycroft,” Molly pulled back a bit to look him in the eyes. “You do have pretty eyes you know --”

“Focus Molly. Why would I tell him this?”

“Because it might actually make them happy?”

“Why would I care about that?”

“Don’t be a brat,” she murmured into his chest. “Because she’s my best mate and I’d like to see her happy and take a romantic risk for once in her stubborn life? And because your brother sometimes looks so lonely, even though he pretends he’s not? How on earth did you shag that woman seven times in one night? Did you need a sports drink to rejuvenate yourself? And did you know you smell fantastic? What cologne is this? You just smell so lovely --”

Sherlock patted her on the head, letting her ramble into his chest, before he felt her body gradually become slack and a soft snore emitted from her. He wrapped one hand around her waist, picked her up and headed out of the morgue.

Hailing a cab, Sherlock deposited Molly in it and also got in, giving her address to the driver. The entire way to her flat, he had a thoughtful expression on his face. That expression remained on his face as he hauled Molly up the stairs, unlocked her door (rather, picked it, but that was a minor quibble) and deposited her in bed, before locking up and heading home.

By the time he returned to 221B, that thoughtful expression had blossomed into a gleeful grin that mirrored the one Molly had earlier.

~*~

“Really Sherlock I don’t need a minder,” Mycroft stared at his brother. “You’re starting to sound like me and that’s worrying.”

Sherlock leaned forward and toyed with a game piece. “You don’t like the recent tidbit of information I’ve discovered?” he said before making his move.

Mycroft’s smile was tight as he moved his piece. “It’s just idle gossip and has no benefit to me,” he leaned back in the chair. “You’re starting to sound like Mummy and her fussing.”

“Do you ever wonder if our parents were right about a few things?” Sherlock’s fingers were quick and decisive as he made his move.

Mycroft shook his head. “Never,” he said, then pursed his lips before making a move. “I think she worries about us because there’s not much else to do -- it’s what parents do. Besides, I’m perfectly fine.”

Sherlock leaned forward and studied the tableau. “Doubtful,” he muttered. “You’ve been looking for a new fish and chip shop again.” He made his move and smiled triumphantly.

Mycroft began making his move, then Sherlock moved in for the kill. “Codrophenia,” he mused. “Rather punny name for a fish and chip shop.”

The elder Holmes brother’s hand slipped and the Jenga pieces fell clattering to the floor.

“Jenga!” Sherlock crowed, his grin widening. “Oh, I didn’t know I touched a spot with that.”

“Let me guess,” Mycroft leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Your network?”

“Don’t you find it funny that it’s the same fish and chip shop a certain Sergeant Donovan also enjoys?”

“So we have similar tastes,” Mycroft muttered. “What of it?”

“Nothing is a coincidence with you Mycroft. You don’t allow it. You’ve strayed off your path for a punny fish and chip shop and an obstinate member of Scotland Yard. Who I have from a reliable source would be amenable to coffee with you.”

Mycroft stood up and brushed his lapels off. “I happen to like the cockles here,” he said rather defensively. “Besides. It’s none of your business and I’m not interested in her -- or anyone. And the constant questions about this, which were once dull, are now getting annoying. I am not lonely. I am fine,” he went to collect his belongings. “Now if you don’t mind, I have an appointment to keep.”

“You know, if you just mentioned my name at the Marleybone shop, you’d get an extra helping of fish,” Sherlock said, before going to pick up his violin.

Mycroft paused for a moment. “You know I find that shop’s oil to be rancid,” he retorted. “And their cockles are rubbery.”

“She tends to favor Codrophenia after her Saturday run -- probably to also help soak up any alcohol from her nights out with Molly,” Sherlock called out, as he began to play Puppy Love on the violin.

The only thing he could hear was the derisive snort from Mycroft, followed by the sound of him storming down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

“You again? I hope this doesn’t become a habit.”

“Just because you make it a habit to get a fried sampler after your Saturday run doesn’t prevent me from enjoying my meal.”

“How do you know?” Sally looked down at herself -- trainers, running shorts, sweaty shirt. “Oh.” Suddenly she wished that she didn’t look so disheveled. Or smelled so whiffy.

Mycroft’s smile thinned more -- if that was possible. “Do keep up Sergeant Donovan,” he said.

Sally grabbed her order. “Another order of cockles?” she glanced over at him, then decided to join him at the counter. “What’s it today?”

“Bit of fresh eel,” he replied, wiping his mouth. “It looked good and tasted delicious.” He peered over at her carton. “Just fried cod? Their skate wing is really quite good.”

“I’m too hungry for that. I just want some comfort food,” Sally retorted. “Your dear little brother kept us busy last night trying to deal with a case. Rather annoying that one. They say he’s become nicer, but I’ve yet to see it.”

“Nicer is entirely relative,” Mycroft’s lips quirked slightly. “You expect too much out of him. Civil is about as good as most people will ever get.”

“You’d think he’d be a bit more polite to someone who basically made sure he got away scott free,” she sighed, before taking a bite of her fish.

“Ah, but that would give away everything,” Mycroft smiled. “People would know you did him a favor and then the question would be what kind of favor.”

Sally swallowed, then chuckled darkly. “Holmes men,” she muttered. “Always so perceptive in other’s behavior.”

There was a long silence as they munched on their food, side by side, leaning against the countertop and watching the world walk past.

“What was the case my brother was called in to assist on?” Mycroft asked, after fishing the last of the cockles out of the small cup.

Sally chewed on her bottom lip for a moment to think. “Robbery of some type,” she said. “It was at the Tate Modern. Some art got lifted and we were mulling over who could’ve done it.”

“Owner stole it for the insurance,” Mycroft finished off. “Rather, it was a forgery that was lifted to be reported stolen, so he’d still have the original and the settlement.”

Sally blinked, then turned to him. “How --”

“Heard the news this morning. Lord Alexander Dunmore -- the man who loaned the works -- has been rumored to have numerous debts, thanks to his several ex-wives, gambling and other vices -- not to mention the upkeep for the Dunmore estate. He was last seen in the company of a Jacob Martins, who is also well known for his illicit talents,” Mycroft smiled. “The probability of what happened next is fairly good, don’t you think?”

She nodded, a smile blooming on her face, despite the effort to will it away. “Lestrade warned me about you -- said ‘What have you gotten yerself into?’” Her voice dropped in pitch and roughened a bit in imitation of her boss’ voice. “‘Let me take care of ‘im, I don’t want you in trouble for punchin’ the British Government in the face.’”

He glanced over at her, and noticed a playful smile on her face. “I will say I’m thankful for that, given that you’re the niece of Charlie Broughton.”

“You know my Uncle Charlie?” Sally cast a sidelong glance at him. “You do do your research.”

“I make it my business to know people,” Mycroft replied with a brittle smile. He checked his watch. “I must be going. Good day.”

“Likewise.”

Mycroft straightened his coat, clutched his umbrella and left the building. Down the street the same dark, foreboding car appeared and he slid into the backseat. Not once did he turn back to look at Sally, which gave her a small sense of comfort, for if he turned around, that would have definitely taken her world and knocked it a few degrees off kilter.

~*~

The warm weather couldn’t last, Sally realized as she sat on a bench watching the swirl of late night activity around her. When people want to film a lovely spring outdoor scene, that’s when the skies would open and not piss rain, but instead, offer up cloudy skies and a drizzle that left everything feeling misty and damp.

At least she had a late night bacon butty and a cup of tea to keep her warm, she mused, as she sipped her tea. Well, formerly hot tea, she thought.

Then a body slipped next to her on the bench.

“Sorry,” she turned, “You’re going to have to get going, there’s a --” she stopped as she noticed a hot cup of tea under her nose. A cup of tea that was in the hand of a familiar face.

“Never thought you were the type to habit film sets,” she said, accepting the cup and taking a sip. “I thought you liked all your media in the CCTV format.”

“Finished a meeting with your superior officer,” Mycroft replied, before unwrapping his sandwich. “He apparently is wondering what my brother is up to, given that he’s recently disappeared again and is incommunicado.”

Sally shrugged. “Thankfully, that one I missed, since they gave me this detail.” She glanced over at him. Were those lines of worry she saw on his face? Sally blinked and looked again -- there was no furrowed brow. _Must be the lighting_ she mused as she bit into her sandwich.

“Mmmm,” Mycroft muttered as he chewed on his sandwich. “So what kind of inane entertainment is being produced for the masses now?”

“Modernization of Hercule Poirot,” Sally said. “Apparently the current showrunner of Doctor Who thought it was time for an update, so they’ve written a script and everything. Supposed to be very clever.”

"How on earth are they going to explain that little moustache?” Mycroft muttered.

“Apparently its something supposedly posh hipsters wear now,” Sally snorted into her cup. “They’ve cast David Mitchell as Poirot”

Mycroft coughed.

“You know of David Mitchell?” She glanced over at him. “I thought there was nothing in your brain but treaties, data and spook stuff.”

“I am smarter than my brother Sergeant Donovan,” Mycroft snipped. “There is plenty of room in my brain for random television celebrities -- after all, it is my business to know their business.” His lips curled into a sneer. “Really? Him?”

Sally looked over at him and grinned. “Hey, I’ve got the same objections as you do,” she said. “To be honest, I don’t really care enough. But I never was a Poriot girl. I’m more of a Ms. Marple fan.”

“Well towards the end Agatha Christie even thought he was a pompous twit,”  Mycroft noted with a twitch of a smile. “But she liked the money enough to not kill him off.”

Sally chuckled, then took a bite of her bun. Her walkie talkie squawked and she picked it up, listened, then grunted into it a few times, before standing. “Well, the company was delightful,” she said. “But I’ve got to get going. Apparently we’re moving location to another place and I’ve got to watch out for the Fleet Street lizards."

Mycroft stood and nodded. “Good night Sergeant Donovan.”

“Good night Mycroft Holmes,” Sally walked away.

~*~

Molly’s mobile buzzed and she reached backwards from her position on her sofa to grab it.

_Where’s Sherlock? His big brother and my boss are worried about him._

Molly sighed. Ever since that relapse months ago, everyone worried about whether or not Sherlock’s addictions would rear their ugly head again. So much so, that he had agreed to drug testing for a bit -- just to avoid getting punched in the nose by John. Then he got shot -- how, Molly still wasn’t sure, but the risk of him becoming addicted to the morphine was a real concern. So much so that John and Mary insisted on moving back to Baker Street to keep an eye on him around the holidays. There was probably something else going on (there was always something else going on), but Molly didn’t bother to pry. What she knew was messy enough.

Evidently those steps weren’t good enough, given the content of Sally’s text.

 _Why do you ask?_ She adjusted herself a bit on the sofa to get a better angle for typing out the message.

_Because the government is worried and I don’t need a pissy boss to deal with later. He’s with you isn’t he? He’s totally with you._

Molly bit her lip and giggled, then glanced down at Sherlock, who was dozing with his head in her lap.

_How?_

_If he wasn’t there, you’d say so. You wouldn’t be asking questions to my questions. You’re really a terrible liar Molly. And you have to fill me in later._

She smiled.

_Yeah, he’s here. Said with Mary in her second trimester, her and John have rediscovered their sex drive and it’s made him unable to concentrate with the racket._

_TMI MOLLY. T.M.I. If you’re trying to kill my sex drive, it’s working._

_It’s been pretty much dead already._

_Just because the horse hasn’t been run doesn’t mean it’s dead. But the image of those two going at it is going to severely cripple it for a bit._

A peal of laughter escaped from Molly and Sherlock woke up, blinking. “Why are you talking to Sally?” he asked.

“Mycroft and Lestrade are worried,” Molly looked down at him. “Just contact your brother all right? People are still concerned about you and these sudden disappearances don’t help. He’s decided to leave his office looking for you -- that’s how bad it is.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ve been clean for months now. Why does everyone assume I need a sitter?”

“Because you’re a junkie who needs to get off on adrenaline when you’re bored?”

Sherlock grumbled, then curled up closer to her. “I’ll call Mycroft later,” he murmured.

She pushed him off her lap. “Now Sherlock,” Molly said. “I don’t need Mycroft searching my house for drugs you know.”

Grumbling more, Sherlock got up and retrieved his coat. Pulling his phone out, Molly watched as he punched some numbers into it and began muttering into it, before turning her attention back to Sally.

_So how’s work?_

_Dull night. Been forced back indoors. Not much going on. Only highlight was a bacon butty and Big Brother coming for a quick chat after rattling Lestrade’s cage for a bit. It’s just a lot of sitting around and keeping streets clear. I suspect I’m going to be heading home soon, since they’re indoors now._

_What’s David Mitchell like?_

_Haven’t seen him yet. There’s just a mob of crew around him all the time. But I will tell you Dev Patel as Hastings is rather dreamy. I think that’s the only bit of casting I like._

_Molly grinned. I’ll bet, she texted._

_Like I said, the horse may not have been run lately, but it’s not dead yet._

~*~

 _Caring isn’t an advantage,_ Mycroft thought to himself, while he sipped his scotch in front of the fire. _Everything ends, so what’s the use of it?_

It was irritating how invested people had become in his life -- how they suddenly _cared_. Mummy was making noises about being concerned about her sons and now Sherlock was even making noises, which was more annoying than his mother. Mothers were supposed to worry about their children -- genetic legacy and all that. But Sherlock worrying about him? That was completely out of character for him.

Mycroft took a sip of the scotch and savored the burn as he let his mind slowly wander past the familial irritations, the day’s reports --  the North Korean ambassador was behaving irregularly and would need to be monitored. He mentally wandered past the day’s news reports regarding the economy and world news, until his mind settled on familiar, but secret, room. A room that smelled of fried fish, bacon buttys and had one person in it with dark curls and a sardonic smile.

Originally that room resembled the interrogation rooms that Mycroft was quite familiar with. There was a two-way mirror, metal chairs and tables and the buzzing fluorescent lights. But that was two years before Codrophenia. Now the room resembled the chippy on a sunny, quiet morning. But the person always remained with bright eyes, the chestnut ringlets and a quick, cutting remark.

He couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment the room was created -- maybe it was always there, thanks to Sherlock’s interactions with Scotland Yard -- but in the past two years, the tiny dot of information had bloomed into its own room, thanks to Mycroft’s careful tending. Leaving the dot alone would’ve been worse, he knew.

Everyone has vices, Mycroft learned at an early age. Caring about others is never an advantage and only a burden -- Sherlock had taught him that at an early age. Keep your vices locked up in cages and they’re easier to control, he thought as he settled into his room for an evening's respite.


	3. Chapter 3

“What do you mean you haven’t gone for coffee?” Molly stared at Sally, incredulous.

Sally stabbed her sausage before taking a bite of it and shrugged. “We haven’t. We just keep running into each other and chatting.”

After a few weeks of nothing but texts and chatty e-mails, the two women had finally made an appointment to meet up for brunch at Nopi to talk face to face. Nopi was out of the way for both of them, but after not seeing each other for a bit, it was a worthwhile indulgence, the two women believed. Not to mention, the eggs were a marvelous treat and sunnier than the weather outside.

“Isn’t that odd?”

“No weirder than you having Sherlock camping out on your couch because his flatmates can’t stop screwing like rabbits,” Sally retorted. “I mean, he has some hideouts -- I’ve heard Lestrade mention it once -- so why does he like your place so much?”

Molly’s face colored and she took a sip of her mimosa.

Sally’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you and him --” she made a rude hand motion.

Molly took a bigger sip of her mimosa, then suddenly choked on it when she saw what her friend’s fingers were doing.

“You totally are,” Sally giggled into her braised eggs. “You finally bagged your Northern European Holmes.” She leaned forward with a devilish grin on her face. “So was it seven times a night? Did he make you wear the hat? I need details.”

Molly began laughing. “I thought you were supposed to distract me from my romantic drama,” she said. “It’s your turn to amuse me with dating stories.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” Sally retorted, blushing a bit as she shoved some eggs in her mouth to avoid talking for a moment.

“Mycroft --”

“Is hanging out at a chippy and we’re eating greasy food because we happen to be in the same place at the same time,” Sally sipped her drink. “That’s not a date. That’s running into people. ‘Sides, you’re distracting me. I don’t need gory details, but you have to tell me how it happened.”

“Tit for tat,” Molly said. “I ask a question, you answer and then vice versa.”

Sally nodded. “I get to go first. When did this happen? You didn’t cheat on Tom did you?”

Molly shook her head. “You know I wouldn’t do that,” she said. “No, it was two weeks ago. He came over complaining about needing quiet and I let him in. Well he went off to the couch and I was puttering around for a bit, then went to bed, because it was late. I wake up in the morning with him in bed with me,” she blushed. “Fully clothed -- don’t give me that look you pervert -- arms around me and fast asleep. He was just so beautiful that I couldn’t resist a small kiss and well --” Molly’s blush spread down her neck and she began laughing. “I just had to take that risk, as a wise woman once advised me.”

Sally could feel her smile growing and euphoria grow in her stomach, which burst out of her in a peal of laughter.

“I know you don’t like him,” Molly began.

Sally chuckled. “I’m not shagging him,” she said. “You are. He’s your problem, not mine. And if you’re happy, I’m happy for you. But you do realize you have a really high maintenance boyfriend?”

Molly nodded. “But it’s no more high maintenance than before and I didn’t have the perks of snogging him,” she said.

“He’s that good?”

Molly got redder, if that was entirely possible, and a lopsided grin spread across her face. “It’s the quality, not quantity,” she giggled. “Let’s just say it’s not a bad ska record.”

Sally’s grin got bigger. “Do you realize how happy I am for you?”

“Enough questions,” Molly clapped her hand over Sally’s mouth. “Now it’s my turn. Do you think that this is a weird dating thing?”

“I don’t even know,” Sally shook her head. “I have no idea. I can’t read him at all. The bacon butty was the weird one, because it’s wasn’t running into each other at Codrophenia. This one was like he sought me out, but didn’t say so. And it’s not like flirting or anything -- just those snippy conversations.”

Molly’s expression became serious. “Well, he’s altering his route,” she replied. “As far as I can tell, he doesn’t do that for anyone but Sherlock. So whatever it is, he’s holding you at a higher esteem than everyone else. Do you want to take this journey into unhealthy eating to a higher level? Like a kebab in bed?” She waggled her eyebrows.

Sally hooted. “You pervert,” she giggled. “And I don’t know. I don’t know what he wants from me. I didn’t think that people like him went out with people like me.”

“You mean robots dating real life human beings?” Molly mused. “I think I read a romance novel like this.”

“Oh shut it,” Sally laughed. “You know what I mean.”

Molly nodded. “I guess for me, it’s more wrapping my head around the idea that he would want to date anyone, given the complications it creates, much less the queen of smartarses.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, the only thing I can think of then is to just ask him for coffee then,” Molly said. “Provoke a reaction because it’ll give you an idea as to where you stand.”

Sally leaned back and smiled. “Look at you giving me advice to kick down doors,” she drawled. “I think this dating thing is giving your confidence a boost.”

Her friend nibbled on some fruit and grinned back. “Well, as a wise woman once told me, sometimes being brave is doing something before you’re ready.”

“Sounds like a blowhard who doesn’t know what the hell they’re talking about.”

~*~

Molly did have a point, Sally later mused as she puttered around her flat. Every Saturday, for the past few weeks, she met with Mycroft at Codrophenia. The Swiss could’ve set their train schedules by his appearances. She would finish her run, head to the chippy, and there he would be, nibbling daintily on a fresh order. The order never looked or smelled old, so it was clear he had timed his arrival to her arrival. What was funnier was that Sally found herself going to every week to Codrophenia - just to see if he was there -- she told herself.

_What kind of game are you playing?_ She wondered for what seemed to be the fifty-billionth time in the past month. The only person she could confide in the matter was Molly, and now Molly was suggesting that Sally charge forward and brazenly ask Mycroft Holmes for coffee. That was the sort of advice that she’d give to Molly when it came to most issues -- _Just do it. What have you to lose?_ \-- but when it came to taking that advice, Sally found herself paralyzed.

_What are you exactly afraid of?_ Sally toyed with that question, spinning it around in her mind like a soccer ball and examining all the angles. It couldn’t be fear of rejection, because she didn’t give a flying fuck as to how a Holmes felt about her. Couldn’t be fear of retribution, because he had more means, motive and opportunity to get his revenge two years ago, when everyone was examining her record.

Sally sat back on the couch with a pot of ice cream and thought it over. Maybe a bit of dissociation would help with this, she realized, remembering what her mum would tell her about the scientific process. The question was simple: _What kind of game is Mycroft Holmes playing by being friendly -- well, more friendly for him -- with me?_

The background research was also elementary -- the meetings at Codrophenia and the bacon butty and hot tea on the set of that film weeks ago. The tea would’ve been considered a friendly gesture by anyone else, but with Mycroft? Sally wasn’t so sure.

Sally wasn’t even sure what her hypothesis was. Human emotions never fit neatly in that box. But testing the hypothesis (or lack thereof) would be simple -- ask him for coffee. Just to see what would happen. Only by doing that could one draw a conclusion, she realized.

_Besides,_ she thought, as she finished off the toasted coconut ice cream. _It would probably end up being hilarious._

 

~*~

“They’re dating you know,” Sally looked over at Mycroft. As usual it was Saturday and they were in Codrophenia. Rain pattered on the window, running down and blurring the images of cars driving past.

Seeing the weather forecast, Sally had decided to forego her run, so technically she had no reason to be near Codrophenia. Nor did she have reason to make herself less grubby than usual. Instead of the running gear, Sally chose the jeans she felt most confident wearing and a rose-pink shirt. She even put in a bit of hair gel to keep her curls from frizzing.

Mycroft had noticed when she entered Codrophenia, but said nothing other than, “The haddock looks particularly good today.”

Sally ordered her usual cod and chips then took her place next to him. She didn’t want to appear as if she was doing all of this for him, after all. There had been a quiet moment as she savored her fish, before she finally opened with her revelation.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Sentiment,” he muttered. “It was obvious he was going to become attached to her when I met her in the morgue years ago. She was willing to accommodate his peculiarities, and selflessly offer him comfort and aid,” a frown covered his face as he viciously bit into a cockle. “Recently, he has become attached to so many people.”

“Oi,” Sally frowned. “You do realize that you’re talking about my best mate?”

Mycroft blinked for a moment. “My apologies,” he said smoothly. “I do not mean to show disdain for your friend. I do worry about the damage he will leave in his wake.”

“She’s a grown woman. He can’t do better than her and she can do no worse than him,” Sally snorted. “And he’s a grown man -- even though that’s debatable,” for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of a smile on his face. “My mum always said if you’re lucky to find someone that loves you and you love back in this merciless world, you’d better grab onto it and not let go, because it doesn’t happen to everyone.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Indeed,” he said. “Those people didn’t have to worry about the potential risks these attachments spawn.”

Sally nearly burned the roof of her mouth as she inhaled sharply on scorching hot fish. He had a point. Sherlock Holmes always was a favorite mark of the media -- simultaneously theatrical and intensely private -- and she could imagine what would happen to Molly if news that they were a couple got out. Tabloid reporters would dig in her trash, camp out in front of her house and dig up anything and everything about her. Visions of the broadsheets also having a field day questioning what rules were disregarded by a lovelorn Molly Hooper also danced in her head, making her feel vaguely queasy. There would be calls for an inquest regarding her professionalism. After her own brush with that, Sally was intensely relieved when another scandal pulled the media spotlight off of her two years ago.

“I see you’ve finally seen the issues I’m dealing with,” Mycroft said as he watched her hastily drink her soda to soothe the burn. “Now you understand why I worry about his attachments.”

Sally nodded. “So what are you planning to do?”

“Control what I can on my end,” his lips narrowed into a thin smile. “If things -- intensify,” he sighed, “then other precautions will need to take place.”

“You make it sound like she’s a royal.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow raised and, for a moment, Sally felt incredibly thick. Of course -- there was the lingering threat of James Moriarty/Richard Brook/whatever his name was and whoever else Sherlock had managed to piss off in his meteoric rise to -- well, whatever the hell he had achieved. Which was probably plenty of people. Unlike a royal, a security attachment couldn’t be assigned to her without question.

“Do you do that to everyone to make them feel like a clot?”

“What?” Mycroft blinked.

“That stare,” Sally sighed, then popped a chip in her mouth. “That ‘I’m the smartest bastard in the room and I will not let you forget it’ stare.”

“You don’t realize how often I have to suppress the urge. Much like you when you have to deal with insouciant clods who muck up your work.”

Sally chuckled. “So then,” she stared him down. “What do you expect of me?”

“I already know you are loyal to her,” Mycroft said. “I know you would protect her out of affection. Just as I do not worry about his friends. If people are discreet, it makes my job easy.”

She nodded. “Easy peasy, lemon squeezy”

He snorted, but before he could retort, he reached into his pocket and read his phone. “Duty calls,” he said, throwing his garbage into a bin. “You do realize, it is going to become more difficult,” he said.

“If everything was easy, I’d have been made Queen of Melanesia by now,” Sally shot back. “Let them enjoy their happiness for a bit. Doesn’t all this predicting the future give you a headache? Don’t you ever wish you could enjoy the now?”

He looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead Mycroft held out his arm. Sally stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out what he was attempting to convey.

“Sergeant Donovan,” he sighed wearily. “I’ve noticed that the rain is getting worse and rather than letting you get soaking wet, I am offering my car to take you back to your flat. Unless there is somewhere else you’d rather be?”

“No,” she said cautiously, dragging out the “o” sound. “I just wanted my cod for lunch and then I was going to go back home and deal with all the things I put off during the week.”

“This isn’t a bother,” he said. “It’s a mere common courtesy and your flat is on the way to my next meeting.”

He had a point, she realized. During their conversation, the skies had opened up and rain was pounding down with an intensity that made her realize that an umbrella wouldn’t be much help. And this would save her money, the stingy portion of the brain piped up.

She took his arm. “As long as it’s no trouble,” she said.

“If it was a bother, I wouldn’t even offer,” he said as they left the building.

Up close, Sally noticed Mycroft’s car wasn’t the ones that she had been unceremoniously shoved into on the way to an interrogation with him. This was definitely a pay grade higher than what she had been shuttled around in -- not that those cars were anything to sneeze at. The interior smelled of expensive leather and the wood details screamed money. Even the threatening purr of the engine suggested that this was not a car for the regular spooks.

“You like this car,” Mycroft glanced over at her.

She shrugged. “It’s definitely something I don’t ride in everyday for work. Are there machine gun turrets under the hood?”

Once more there was a tight smile. “Those would weigh down the vehicle too much,” he said. “We have rocket launchers under the headlamps.”

Sally chuckled, then watched for a bit as the cityscape rolled past the tinted windows. The silence was long and thick -- filled with things that she wanted to say, but wasn’t sure if it was the right time.

_Oh fuck it all,_ she thought to herself. _No time like the present._

“You know,” she started cautiously, annoyed at the sudden feeling of butterflies in her stomach. “We never did have that coffee like you suggested two years ago.”

She glanced over at him. His expression was impenetrable. The silence stretched out even longer and became brittle. Sally suddenly wished that she had walked home instead. Being soaked to the skin with her hair frizzing would've been better this silence, which had gone from brittle to mortifying.

After what seemed like an eternity (but in reality was probably just a few seconds), Mycroft finally spoke, “Your flat is coming up.”

Sally didn’t even wait for the car to come to a full stop. She opened the door as it slowed and hopped out. “Well, uh,” she stammered, feeling a heat rising up her neck and to the tips of her ears. “Thanks for the lift,” then slammed the door before she could say anything else.

She willed herself not to look as she heard the car pull away and she headed up to her flat. _It might not be hilarious now_ , she thought with a bit of unexpected bitterness, _but trust me, it’ll be hilarious later._


	4. Chapter 4

The room had expanded. Mycroft was not pleased by this.

He didn’t know when this occurred -- he suspected it happened after Sergeant Donovan’s attempt to ask him for coffee, but he didn’t recall permitting the expansion. It couldn’t have been during his meeting to handle an incident in Kiev, because that required all of his concentration and he couldn’t allow his mind to wander.

But part of it did without his knowledge. And that perturbed him.

The room was now larger than before. Most of it resembled Codrophenia, but a good portion of it was also blank -- that is, it trailed off from the walls of the chip shop to white nothingness. The whole thing reminded Mycroft of an old Daffy Duck cartoon he had seen as a child where the scenery would just end, leaving nothing but a blank page for the poor duck to fret about.

The message was clear. Mycroft shut his eyes, furrowed his brow and felt the room pull back to the original, permitted dimensions. Breathing a sigh of relief, he opened his eyes. Codrophenia was there. It did not fade off into blankness. There were four walls, the smell of fried fish and --

It started with the sound of a rubber band being stretched too tight, then he could hear the snapping sound as his subconscious took over and the front door cracked open as if it was blown open by a wind. The door shattered -- and sucked out the entire front of the store in a flurry of brick, mortar and glass. Rain pelted in and Mycroft stepped through the wreckage and out of Codrophenia to look beyond.

There was the front of Sally’s building. The simple, nondescript Victorian building and the steps leading up the entrance. He was familiar with it, thanks to her file. She lived on the first floor in a simple one bedroom flat in Islington that according to CCTV was ordinary -- nothing ostentatious or out of her pay grade. She clearly was a sensible woman.

The front door of the building was open and a bright light shone from within. Mycroft huffed in annoyance, before sitting down on the stoop. Ruffling his hair in frustration, he glared back at the doorway.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he called out, feeling rather foolish about the whole thing. “It’s not going to work.”

The door didn’t slam shut. The glow didn’t dim.

The problem about battling yourself, Mycroft mused, is that while you may know your enemy, your enemy also knows you.

~*~

 _Thank God for best friends armed with ice cream, fairycakes and ale_ , Sally thought as she chugged down her beer.

“I’ve never heard of your situation happening and you’re talking to the girl who got dumped one time in the shower,” Molly said after she sucked on her spoonful of ice cream.

“You mean he just left?” Sally asked, shocked.

“No,” Molly replied. “He dumped me while we were showering together.”

Sally bit back a laugh. “That’s horrible!”

Molly grinned. “Oh my favorite story is the one where I met with an old boyfriend at a restaurant. He showed up and broke up with me mid-meal.”

Sally winced.

“Oh it gets better,” Molly added. “He then asked to borrow my phone so he could call another girl.”

Sally began to laugh.

“He said he was low on minutes and didn’t want to waste them,” Molly snorted, her laughter melding with Sally’s.

Two hours after her ignoble exit from Mycroft’s car and the subsequent texts to the one person who she could talk to about this, Molly arrived in full “comfort my best friend” mode. Armed with beer, ice cream and a box of fairycakes, Molly was cheering up Sally with some of the most humiliating break-up stories she had.

“But I will say that I’ve never thrown myself from a car to get out of a situation,” Molly said after the laughter died down. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“Wait,” Sally said as she grabbed a fairycake, sliced it in half and created a sandwich. “Are you telling me that I win in the awkward dating contest?” She bit into her concoction.

“I’m sorry, but yes,” Molly replied. “You threw yourself out of a car as he sat there in silence. Are you sure you didn’t break his circuitry?”

Sally finished off her cupcake sandwich in two neat bites. “If only,” she laughed. “The most he could say was,” Sally’s voice dropped a level and she did a bad imitation of a public school accent, “‘We have arrived,’ and I just leaped out of the car. It was so horrifying.”

“Well, you got your answer then,” Molly shrugged. “Or --”

“So help me, if you’re telling me he likes me and doesn’t know how to act, I’m going to check the date and make sure I didn’t time travel back to my teenage years.”

“Boys are like, totally weird,” Molly lisped, before grabbing a cupcake and mimicking Sally’s motions from before. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. He didn’t say yes he wanted coffee. And it’s not like you were interested in him,” she took a bite, then studied her friend’s expression.

Sally shook her head. “No,” she said, a tad too quickly. “No, not at all.”

“LIIIIAAAARRR!” Molly screeched.

“Oh. My. God,” Sally ground out as she removed the paper wrapping from her cake. “Fine. I was interested,” she snapped, then shoved the last fairycake in her mouth.

Molly wrapped an arm around Sally and hugged her, while she munched on the cake angrily. After the final swallow, Sally finally spoke.

“Look,” she said. “You’re my best mate, and I love you, but I want something else.”

“You want a penis,” Molly interjected.

“Not just any penis,” Sally sighed. “I’m a fussy woman and what’s in my email inbox is not the willies I want. Dating lately has been awful. It’s like a job interview, except that there might be sex at the end. The men are reserved and aren’t really interesting. They’re not challenging to talk to -- lots of them are just happy to sit around and talk about footie or television and that’s it. There’s nothing about them with drive or ambition. It’s like they’re just soft, settled and looking for a girlfriend or wife just to check off another box on the list.”

“And the sex isn’t even good enough to make up for that,” Molly added.

Sally nodded. “I thought I was kind of special with the weekly meetings -- and I know he was making time for me every week with those meetings -- and so it seemed like a safe bet to ask. Instead I got uncomfortable silence that slowed time down. And now it’s out there and it can’t be taken back you know? So now whenever we see each other, there’s going to be that image of me throwing myself out of his car to get away as fast as possible.”

“You do realize that every time you tell this story, your exit gets more dramatic?” Molly observed. “Tomorrow you’re going to tell me you were shot out of the car via a James Bond ejection seat.”

A bitter laugh burst out of Sally. “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story,” she replied.

Molly winced. “Ugh. So what now?”

Sally shrugged. “I change my route for a bit? I’ve been ingesting too much fried food thanks to these weekly meeting. Really it might be as simple as not going there.”

“Which is a damn shame, because that is a good chippy,” Molly said. “Their deep fried Mars bars are amazing.”

Sally burst out laughing. “With luck, he’ll choke on a rubbery cockle and go somewhere else soon enough.”

Molly clinked her beer bottle with Sally’s. “Here’s to that hope.”

~*~

“What are you scared of?”

Mycroft glanced up at the young boy with dark curls staring down at him. _How long have I been here?_ he wondered.

“I’m not scared,” Mycroft replied.

“If you weren’t scared, you would’ve gone in by now,” the boy sat down next to him. “If you weren’t scared, you would’ve said yes to coffee.”

“Shut up Sherlock.”

“So what are you going to do? Attempt to will this away?” for a moment, the young boy’s voice sounded like his adult counterpart’s. “How long have you been trying that?”

“I have just started,” Mycroft did a sidelong glance over at Sherlock, who remained the seven year old bratty brother he always knew. “I can do this.”

“You know the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results,” the young boy mused. “You told me that once when I was trying to make nice with my classmates.”

“There’s also the line ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.’” Mycroft sneered.

“I think you don’t want to change it back to where it was, because if you wanted it you would’ve done it by now,” the boy glanced over at him. “You’re the smarter one -- you’d figure out a way. You’ve figured out so much. But I don’t think you really want it to go back to where it was.”

Mycroft snorted. “How do you know that?”

The boy glanced back and stared at the open door and the glow from within the building. “Door’s still open,” he said. “Light’s there. Normally you control every room in your mind with perfect precision. But not here. Curious.” Adult Sherlock glanced down at him. “Why do you think that is?” he said, a smirk on his face.

“Oh fuck off,” Mycroft snapped. “I am not lonely.”

“No, but there’s copious amounts of evidence that you’re curious about her,” Adult Sherlock leered.

“Hardly -- she’s ordinary.”

“Liar,” Sherlock practically purred out the word. “You altered your route to go to Codrophenia on Saturdays, timing your visits to when she would normally end her runs. You asked her for coffee two years ago and she turned you down, and that’s when you first created this little room for her in an attempt to control your base urges and now look at where you are -- surrounded by wreckage. Why not surrender to your urge? There’s nothing wrong with indulging yourself.”

“Cheap words from the addict,” Mycroft snapped. “You know what happens when one indulges too much in their vices. Besides, I already know enough about her. She’s a Detective Sergeant with Scotland Yard who enjoys fried cod, high quality coffee, toasted coconut ice cream, the companionship of Molly Hooper, boxing and running. There’s nothing else to discover. She’s --”

“Plutarch,” Sherlock had changed back to the seven year old. “Plutarch was special.”

“Do you mind not doing that?” Mycroft snapped. “You are giving me a migrane.”

“Sorry,” the boy sat down next to him.

The two of them sat in silence. Instead of the silence being comforting, Mycroft found it oppressive. It wasn’t a good idea to go to her. Coffee was a bad idea -- he still wasn’t even sure why he asked her two years ago. Except that she captivated him for very fact that she was ordinary. Unlike most people, who tried to be more than what they were (and he could clearly see the facade), Sally Donovan was unrepentantly herself.  Most people would not have told him to fuck off, but she did with relish, which impressed him.

That was one thing she had in common with John Watson, Mycroft mused. Neither of them were intimidated by his stature. Unlike John Watson, Sally seemed as intrigued with him, as he was of her.

Mycroft reached his conclusions. Rising off of the stoop, he began to pick his way through the wreckage of Codrophenia.

“Where are you going?” Young Sherlock called out to him.

“Out.”

~*~

Sally was curled up with a hot mug of tea and Jonathan Ross blaring on the telly. Molly left after bolstering Sally’s spirits and making the promise to meet up for lunch later that week. Now alone with her thoughts as the sugar and alcohol induced rush wore off, Sally’s thoughts spiraled back to the source of her woes.

What would’ve happened if she said yes to Mycroft’s request for coffee two years ago? Had the window of opportunity slammed shut? Sally’s gut refused to believe that his actions were merely professional courtsey. If he was like his brother, there was the belief that he could will the universe into his bidding via that massive intellect. Niceties were for the weak of mind.

Sally huffed an annoyed sigh as she watched the telly with angry concentration. _This is not worth dwelling over_ , she lectured herself. Just own what happened and deal with it later. _This is the twenty-first century and attempting to dissect Mycroft Holmes’ thoughts is as futile as trying to predict lotto numbers._

 _But you wish he was interested don’t you?_ the unhelpful portion of her brain piped up. For a moment, Sally contemplated whether or not she could do a lobotomy with the takeaway chopsticks she had in her kitchen. _It was nice having some form of conversation instead of being bombarded with badly-lit, badly-framed willie shots._

That was the problem -- Mycroft had treated her as a person first. Granted an antagonizing, smart-arsed person, but their conversations had been more interesting than the past few dates. There wasn’t the annoying “getting to know you but also presenting the best side of myself” script that bored her to tears -- no, it was straight to business, which was comfortable for her. And his presence at Codrophenia had roused her curiosity in ways that it hadn’t been piqued before. It also didn’t help that with Molly’s naughty encouragement, her thoughts were branching off into decidedly non-platonic areas.

She was contemplating whether it was a wise idea to contact one of her many dating profile queries when there was a banging on her door. Despite her wariness, Sally approached it and glanced through the peephole, then cursed at the sight of Mycroft Holmes in front of her door. He was still in the three-piece suit and looking nonplussed about the fact that he was at her door at eleven at night. Almost as if he had an appointment with her -- and judging by his expression, it looked like Sally was about fifteen minutes late.

Sally mentally cursed as she glanced down at herself -- Fulham track suit bottom, the Doctor Hoo t-shirt she got for Christmas from a cousin, no makeup and her hair a mess. Huffing an annoyed sigh, Sally opened the door and stared at Mycroft.

“Yes?”

Mycroft stepped forward and crowded Sally. Even though he wasn’t as tall as his brother, there was an imposing aura that caused her to step back and allow him into her flat. She wanted to say something cheeky like _Isn’t this a bit late for coffee?_ but she found her mouth unable to form words as she shut the door, then moved backwards to accommodate him.

“I apologize for my lateness,” Mycroft started, then his voice hitched when it became clear that he wasn’t sure what to say next. His lips frowned slightly and something shifted behind his cool gaze.

Sally felt herself redden under her gaze, knowing he was taking in everything and probably judging her based on her fashion choices, what football team she supported and even the choice of television, since Jonathan Ross was cracking terrible jokes in the background. This was definitely unequal footing, but she straightened herself and stared him down. There was no way in hell she was going to be cowed by some trumped-up auditor in her own flat.

She expected a cutting remark, but what happened next Sally would always swear that she never anticipated. Mycroft took a step closer, but she refused to budge -- whether it was out of stubborn pride or something else, she wasn’t sure. In any case, he loomed over her, staring her down. He radiated warmth and a woody, spicy scent enveloped her.

 _Of course he’d wear something traditional_ her thoughts piped up. _Can you picture him wearing AXE body spray?_ Sally didn’t start laughing, because the banked fire in his expression left her transfixed.

“I did not come for coffee,” he said breaking the silence. Then the dam burst.

Mycroft’s mouth came crashing down on hers. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tightly to him. Her mouth opened under his and she let out a low moan as the kiss deepened. Her hands clung to his shoulders as they moved into the foyer. It wasn’t a suave kiss from an experienced lover. This was a kiss of pure hunger that left her feeling weak-kneed.

Gone was the cool regard and the flicker of heat she had seen before was now a full blown inferno of desire and longing that left her unsteady. He pulled back for a moment, catching his breath. If Sally was sane, she would’ve gently pushed him away, made coffee and have a serious discussion about what was occurring.

Instead, she found her hands rising up to massage the intensity from his brow -- a touch he leaned into, eyes closed as if he was memorizing every moment. His hair was rumpled and he looked utterly wrecked from warring with a primal part of himself. Pride burst through her as Sally realized that she was probably one of a handful of people who would ever see Mycroft Holmes brought down by desire.

Really, what else was she going to do in this situation? Her hands slid around his neck as she pulled him closer and his lips covered hers, obliterating any witticisms she had left in her brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a huge debt of gratitude to GS Jenner for her help with beta-ing and Brit-picking this entire thing. Especially this chapter where I just got annoyed with my writing and wanted to set everything on fire.
> 
> Just wanted to say that now, because this chapter highlighted that having someone willing to let you whine about writing is so valuable.


	5. Chapter 5

“You know, if this was a movie, now’s the time when it would fade to the ‘THE END’ credit and everyone would leave feeling satisfied and happy,” Molly mused. “But I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen.”

Sally snorted into her lunch. “If you want a happy ending, we should end there,” she said.

True to their word, the two women met up for lunch later that week. Sally was hoping to talk about everything, anything but romance, but apparently the fates decided against it, thanks to Mycroft’s visit.

“So did the horse at least get run?” Molly chuckled.

Sally winced.

Molly started to laugh harder. “What? Did someone fall off the saddle?”

“No,” Sally shook her head, wishing she didn’t have to talk. “But you could tell that he’s not accustomed to --”

“Human touch,” Molly finished off.

Sally nodded. “It wasn’t bad,” she quickly said, her voice lowering a bit. “But you could tell he wasn’t used to any of this. I mean, there was a point where I could see his mind battling everything as if it was saying,” she did an imitation of Mycroft, “‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING PENIS? STOP THAT! WE SHOULDN’T BE --’” Sally theatrically rolled her eyes backwards. “OH THAT WAS AMAZING. SHUT UP BRAIN! THIS IS FUN.”

Molly let out a shriek of laughter, which she attempted to contain in her napkin. It didn’t work. Tears started running down her face as her body shook with giggles. Finally, after gulping down a bit of tea, Molly dabbed her eyes and a final snort exploded out of her.

“Please tell me Sherlock did the same thing,” Sally said, after the laughter faded away.

Molly shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “I mean, after that first kiss, he just kind of leaped on me like a leopard on a wounded gazelle. It reminded me of my university boyfriends. Nearly knocked me out when he bonked me in the head.”

Now it was Sally’s turn to start laughing. “You’re kidding,” she gasped.

Molly shook her head. “Nope. Completely, utterly awkward, but also just so sweet --” the blush started up again.

“You are so in love,” Sally smiled.

“Yeah,” Molly nodded. “So what happened then?”

Sally winced. “Well, after a bit, we’re laying there -- I’m kind of not sure what to do, because we’ve just gone from no touching at all to --” her hands made a motion.

“All the touching.”

“Exactly, so I’m not sure what to do. I mean, do you snuggle? Do you just lay there? What do you do?”

“Let me guess,” Molly leaned forward. “There was no snuggling.”

Sally made a face. “I just followed his lead you know? I mean, he wasn’t exactly reaching out for me -- if anything he just seemed quiet and absent.”

Molly nodded, “Got lost in his thoughts,” she said wisely. “Seen that before.”

“What do you do?”

Molly shrugged. “I either fall asleep or get up and take care of whatever I was doing before,” she said. “If the job was done right, I usually am down for the count.”

Sally bit her lip. “Well he did do the job right, because I fell asleep -- I should’ve high-fived him or something just to mess with him,” she took a bite of her lunch. “But when I woke up, he was gone.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Did he at least leave a note?”

Sally nodded. “It was rather formal -- ‘Thank you for the lovely evening. M.’”

“Wow,” Molly said. “Really?”

Sally nodded.

“And you haven’t heard from him since?”

“Nope.”

“You know you’re just missing a couple hundred pounds in cash to make this your own version of Secret Diary of a Call Girl,” Molly remarked.

Sally snorted, then took another bite of her lunch. Once she finished chewing she finally spoke. “And so here we are. I’ve got no more of a clue than when you brought over those fairycakes.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “What a prat,” she said. “I think he’s terrified.”

“Of me?” 

“Yes. You know him. They don’t do emotions well at all. They’re all icy reserve and childish behavior when it comes to icky feelings.”

Sally shook her head. “I’m just not going to read any more into it,” she said, checking her watch. “Work’s been mental and I’ve got a lot going on lately. Besides, if he wants me, he knows where to find me.”

Molly nodded, “That makes sense,” she said. “Besides, he’s not the center of your universe.”

“True,” Sally replied. “But I will give him a bit of credit for rocking my world that night.”

~*~

Mycroft checked his watch, then stared out of the window of Codrophenia as he huffed an impatient sigh. She was late. Since their meetings had begun, Sergeant Donovan was never late -- she would arrive for her fried fish within a fifteen minute window, which had expired long ago.

Today was proving to be the exception. In the past Mycroft would have thought one of many variables were in play -- work, illness and family were top of the list. But now there was another possibility that he didn’t like considering.

_I should not have indulged_ he thought, before tossing the rest of his meal in the bin. _Of course it would result in complications._

Mycroft opened the door and ran into Sergeant Donovan, who was coming into the shop. She was dressed for work -- slacks and a blouse, hair up in a messy ponytail and for a moment, the scent of orange blossoms and jasmine filled his senses.

He pulled back and straightened his suit coat, staring down at her as she looked up at him with a bemused glint in her eyes. Mycroft felt himself redden slightly as he remembered the last time he saw her -- sprawled out in bed, a sated smile on her lips.

“You are late,” he finally said.

“I didn’t know you were timing me,” she replied, mouth quirking in a slight smile. “I just came around to grab something for me and the boys -- we’ve got a case that’s a bit of a pain in the arse.”

She brushed past him to go to the counter and place the order, which looked sizeable. “Call came in last night and we’re just finishing up now. Nothing interesting, but rather messy regarding paperwork and the like,” she said back to him. “I volunteered to get lunch for everyone to celebrate the end of this.” Sally collected her order and headed for the door, before halting and eying him for a moment.

“You were waiting for me,” she said after a moment, a smile growing on her face.

He felt a blush blooming across his face as he pursed his lips and shrugged. “The cockles were good today,” he said feebly. “Also the whitefish was very fresh, and yes, I was waiting for you.”

Her smile widened. “Well, if you’re willing to wait a bit more, I should be free later, but I can’t promise to be good company. I’ve been up for at least thirty-six hours now and it’s going to take me a bit more before I’m away from work.”

Mycroft reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a business card. Noting that Sally’s hands were full of fish, he gently tucked the card into her coat pocket. “Forgive my presumption,” he said. “I would appreciate it if you contacted me when you are receptive for company.”

She arched an eyebrow and chuckled. “Such a sly devil,” Sally said. “Until then Mycroft.”

“Sergeant Donovan.”

That made her laugh harder. “Please, after what we’ve been through? After what we’ve done?” her eyebrows waggled a bit, “Call me Sally,” and with that, she left the shop, a bright smile on her lips.

Mycroft watched her saunter down the street, hips swaying to an unknown beat, before she entered an unmarked Scotland Yard car. His pulse quickened briefly as he absorbed the meaning of what Sergeant -- no, Sally -- Donovan had told him. Mycroft allowed himself a moment to enjoy the indulgence before leaving the shop, the corners of his mouth pointing upward.

~*~

Sally stared at her flat, unsure of what happened. Her hands drifted into her coat pocket and she pulled out Mycroft’s card and punched the number into her mobile.

One ring, two rings, then he picked up. “Sally,” he said, voice cool as silk. “How may I be of service?”

“I was wondering if I should report a burglary,” Sally began, humor tinging her voice.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Except there’s a funny thing. No one nicked anything, but there’s a lovely bowl of pink roses here.”

Sally surveyed her flat as she heard Mycroft’s murmur of amusement into the phone. It wasn’t just the flowers -- the sink full of dirty dishes were now empty and all the dishes were cleaned and put back in their proper place. A quick glance into her bedroom found her week’s dirty laundry cleaned. Sally suspected if she looked in the drawer, her underwear would also be ironed.

“I didn’t know you also had house elves,” she added.

“You did say that you had been up for more than thirty-six hours,” he replied. “I thought you might appreciate having some tasks attended to so you could rest without worries.”

“Well, it’s a little odd to come home and find this,” she said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to make your life a little more convenient.”

“I don’t want convenient.”

He was trying to hide it, but Sally could’ve sworn that she heard him suck in a breath out of apprehension. “Oh?”

“I just want you,” she said. “Now are you going to come over so I can properly thank you or not?”

“I shall be over within an hour.”

They ended up on her living room floor, since neither of them could wait to get to her bedroom, the heady scent of the roses surrounding them as they made love. Somewhere in the evening -- maybe it was after Mycroft made omelets --  they finally made it to her bedroom and that was when Sally finally found the words that were evading her.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.

Mycroft stopped nuzzling the inside of her wrist and looked up. “I wanted to,” he replied. “Do you not appreciate that your chores were done?”

Sally sighed and ruffled her hair, realizing that she was treading that delicate line of not wanting to hurt someone’s feelings, but wanting to speak the truth. “I did,” she said. “But I don’t like that you did it without my permission. It’s a bit off putting.”

He nodded. “I see,” he finally said after a long silence. “I will not do it again, unless you ask.”

She smiled, “That’s a good boy,” she said before leaning over to kiss him.

~*~

Mycroft Holmes -- the man who could easily predict and direct most people’s behavior with the same ease he enjoyed his morning tea -- was perplexed.

Ensconced in his usual seat in the Diogenes Club, fingers steepled, he ran the events of the previous day through his head, attempting to decode the mystery.

Most people would have considered having a clean flat and laundry a suitable token of affection. The roses he chose for her weren’t that garish ruby red, nor was the bouquet excessively large. It was a statement that seemed appropriate for the occasion.

While Sally accepted the gestures with some grace and appreciation, it was clear she wasn’t pleased with his decisions. But yet she still requested his presence and enjoyed their physical interaction as much as he did. Mycroft allowed himself a brief smile at that recollection, before returning to the situation at hand.

No matter, he decided. He would obey her wish. These sort of things required a delicate touch. It was tempting to continue unheeded -- there was a long list of things in her flat that needed repair, judging by the reports from the cleaning service he employed -- but it would obviously end unacceptably, despite the fact that he knew she would benefit from his actions.

Mycroft Holmes had succeeded in much in life. He could easily make Sally Donovan a happy woman.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Did you know that an ice cream shop moved into your house?” Molly called out as she peered into Sally’s freezer.

“Why do you think I invited you over?” Sally said, as she pulled out the takeaway from its containers. “I can’t eat all that and there’s no room for any frozen veg thanks to those pots.”

“Is everything alright?” Molly glanced back at her friend. “This is even beyond the ‘I am having a major emotional crisis’ stress eating of the past. I didn’t have this much ice cream when I broke up with Tom.”

Sally rolled her eyes and uttered one word: “Mycroft.”

Molly pulled out the bottle of wine she brought, “Is he trying to fatten you up or something?” she asked as she uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses, before sitting down at the table to enjoy dinner.

Sally shook her head. “I made the mistake of telling him about work being mental,” she began as she ripped a piece of naan and dipped it in her tikka masala sauce. “He offered to have groceries delivered to my house when I was going on about not having time to shop, and I agreed.”

She took a bite of the bread and shook her head, a slight smile on her lips. “Well, I came home to find a fully stocked larder and my freezer filled with my favorite ice cream and a bouquet of tulips on the table,” she glanced over at Molly. “Please tell me that your boyfriend does this also?”

Molly burst out laughing. “I wish,” she replied. “I’ve had to argue with him about keeping body parts in the fridge. At least he doesn’t do that at my flat -- tried once and I pointed out Toby tried to eat his experiments, thus wrecking his results and that ended that.”

“It’s your fault you know,” Sally said, pointing her fork at her friend. “You’re the one who gives those to him.”

Molly shrugged and scooped out some biryani. “Some would think it’s sweet that he’s done this,” she said.

“I know,” she sighed, before sipping her wine “It seems like I’m complaining my diamond shoes are too tight, but it’s more that it’s so much. I don’t even know how to compensate for this -- the scales feel so out of balance you know?”

“Have you told him how you feel?”

Sally nodded. “He listened the first time -- you remember when I had that robbery that ended with the triple homicide two days after we had lunch? Well, I ran into him at Codrophenia and he gave me his number.”

Molly smiled, eyes bright. “And?”

“Well, when we finished wrapping that case up and filing the reports, I come home and the whole place was spotless. Dirty dishes from the week were done, laundry washed, my knickers were even ironed and folded,” Sally laughed at Molly’s expression. “Apparently he has minions to do this sort of thing. It’s unsettling knowing that someone under his employ knows I wear Mark and Spark’s pants.

“Anyway, when he came over, I told him not to do it again, and he promised he wouldn’t, and he didn’t. Until this week,” Sally sighed. “This was a shit week and when he offered to help, I thought just getting some groceries delivered wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

Molly eyed the kitchen. “Did he also take the time to clean and organize everything?”

Sally nodded. “Yup. He means well, but I feel like it’s too much. We haven’t even said those words yet. We’ve only begun seeing each other the past two or so weeks, so this is all new.”

“You’re kidding. This is what people do for spouses or major commitments. I mean, you’re not --”

Sally shook her head. “Please, I’m too busy to entertain other options. Besides, I like him. He’s smart, witty, charming, a good cook --”

“And a control freak,” Molly snorted.

“Pot. Kettle. Black,” Sally retorted. “I think I’m going to have to remember he tends to overdo things and be careful in my wording at times,” she said, finishing her wine. “It’s like having a genie -- you have to be careful with what you wish for.”

“Not just that -- what about the other stuff?”  

“I don’t know,” Sally said. “I think it’s just going to be me just speaking up and working it out. At least he seems to be listening to me, as opposed to blowing me off, which is good.”

“There’s potential!” Molly brightly said.

Sally nodded. “He needs a little improvement, but at least it’s not a complete fixer-upper.”

~*~

Of course Mycroft was ticking off a checklist, Sally mused to herself as she slid into the back of his car and watched the increasing splendour of buildings moving past her window as she drew closer to his place. And of course she had teased him about it.

“I have realized that we have been seeing each other for approximately a month now,” he had told her during a phone conversation the night before.

“Has it been that long?” Sally asked. “I thought it was longer.”

“As in interminable or are you using a different benchmark?” She could tell his tone was jesting and she chuckled.

“I suppose if you were using the time when you, in a fit of emotion, burst into my flat like Mr. Darcy, then yes, it has been a month,” Sally grinned into the phone.

There was a soft cough on the other end, then Mycroft finally spoke. “I did inform you that I did not come for coffee -- what did you expect of me at 11 at night? Cribbage?”

She had to laugh at that. “Touche,” she replied. “So what’s with the burst of sudden sentiment?”

“You have not been to my flat yet. I wish to rectify this.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, work permitting. I will send a car and we will have dinner here.”

“Work permitting.”

As the car pulled up to St. James Square and Pall Mall, Sally allowed herself one whispered “wow,” when she saw the enormous period building. She allowed herself another “wow,” as the doorman opened the door and took her hand, before escorting her to the lift and telling her the location of Mycroft’s flat.

Standing in the lift, Sally got a glimpse of her reflection in the polished wood. _How the hell did a girl like me end up in a situation like this?_ she wondered briefly. She took a moment to fluff her hair before the doors opened and she strolled down the hall to his flat.

She didn’t even have a chance to knock on the door, when Mycroft opened it. He was still in a button down shirt and dress trousers and his waistcoat was buttoned. But one thing Sally noticed was that his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows.

“Good evening,” he said.

She leaned over and offered a quick kiss on the cheek. “Evening,” she said as he held the door open for her. “I have to say it’s a surprise to see you without the full suit on,” she said, as he closed the door.

“I’m cooking dinner,” he replied. “It would be imprudent to prepare a meal with a suitcoat on.”

Sally arched an eyebrow. “Really? You cook for fun?”

He nodded. “I find it soothing, unlike you, who seems to subsist on takeaway and frozen meals.”

“I can make a cheese on toast,” she retorted as he took her coat and stowed it away. “And eggs in all forms.”

“Perfect for survival, but not for pleasure.” Mycroft replied as he handed her a glass of wine.

Sally sipped the wine -- a lovely Chardonnay -- as she looked around her surroundings. Somehow she wasn’t surprised that it was clean and sparse with no real trace of personal touches. Everything was elegant and tastefully furnished in a classic style, but she got no hint of personality at all. The books and CDs had a veneer of class, but Sally knew better. These items didn’t seem like Mycroft at all.

“This isn’t your home,” she said as she poked her head into the kitchen. On the counter there was a golden chicken surrounded by slightly caramelized vegetables. Dinner smelled amazing, warm and familiar, which didn’t surprise her. She remember the omelets he had made earlier and how he managed to make a delicious meal from the random scraps in her kitchen.

He looked over at her, eyebrow raised. “It is my flat,” he said.

“But it’s not your home,” Sally repeated. “You read Machiavelli's The Prince? Sun Tzu’s The Art of War? Those are books used by middle-management prats who are looking to appear like the big boss. I figure you’ve already read Churchill’s histories, so I’m not surprised by that, but someone like you would have that. The CD of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons? That’s like one of those cliches bed and breakfasts leave in rooms to appear posh along with the crooked print of some of Monet’s water lilies over the bed. And I believe Lark Ascending is one of those pieces issued to every Brit upon birth.”

He smiled -- a genuinely brilliant one -- and for a moment Sally felt a shiver of pleasure run throughout her body. “I knew you were smarter than what I was initially led to believe,” he said. “You are correct. I own this flat, but I spend so little time here that the furnishings don’t matter.”

“Workaholic eh?”

He shrugged. “You know my chosen career requires considerable focus and attention. Much like yours.”

_Yet you make time for me,_ Sally thought as she sipped her wine. “Well, I hope that the government won’t fall with you being away at dinner tonight,” she teased.

“Given the slow-moving cogs of bureaucracy, the plans I have should remain in effect long after we have departed this Earth,” he replied as whisked something on the stove. “I just need to keep my hand on the ship’s wheel to make sure we remain on course.” He sampled the gravy, then added some salt. “Dinner is almost ready.”

Mycroft served a simple, but beautifully roasted chicken, where the buttery skin crackled and the meat was tender and juicy. The potatoes were roasted in goose fat and the exterior had a crispy bite to them while the interior was luscious and soft. The vegetables were nothing like the limp vegetables that Sally experienced with most dinners. They had a bite and a rare sort of sweetness.

“How did you learn to cook all of this?” Sally said after it was done. “I didn’t think public school boys knew how to do this.”

He swirled the wine in his glass. “Gap year before university,” he said. “I have always had an interest in cooking and spent that year in apprenticeship to become a chef. I had some rudimentary knowledge before that, but, afterwards, I gained appreciation for the art.”

Sally chuckled, imagining him in the cook’s jacket, clogs on and toiling over a hot stove or working on chopping some items for preparation. “And what did you learn at that job?”

“I learned that everything is about presentation and image,” Mycroft began. “A simple roast chicken is elevated to mythical status if you have the right surroundings. Most people won’t take the time to learn how to do something as simple as this --” he focused a pointed look at Sally. “But they’re willing to pay through the nose for it at some trumped-up eatery because the table linens are in the proper shape.

“If you understand how to do something,” he continued, “it’s amazing how much power you can wield over people. Why the trust people have that their meal will come out of a restaurant untainted is impressive -- it’s almost like religious faith.”

“That’s a definite story I’m dying to hear about.”

There was an impish gleam in Mycroft’s eyes. “Another time,” he said.

After dinner she helped tidy the kitchen. “It’s the least I can do for you feeding me,” she said as she washed a pan, “But you put everything away, since I suspect you had a coded system.”

Mycroft offered another thin-lipped smile. “It’s not that difficult,” he said, “I once had Mummy try and tidy and that was a mistake I will never make again. She insisted on rearranging everything to her satisfaction.”

“You still call your mum ‘Mummy’?”

“You don’t?”

“She became ‘Mum’ by the time I was six,” Sally glanced over at him. “Why do you insist on that?”

“Because that’s her title. She was Mummy when I was a child and I see no point in shortening her name. I still do not understand why she insists on shortening my name.”

Sally looked over at him, eyes twinkling in mirth, “Oh what does she call you?” she asked. “Please tell me. Is it Croftie? I bet it’s Croftie.”

Mycroft’s lips turned into another thin smile. “No it is not,” he wiped his hands, then leaned forward and kissed her. “I do not understand nicknames,” he said after he pulled away. “Why would you give someone a name only to call them something different?”

“Sometimes it’s a secret between two people,” she said. “Mum used to call me Musty, for the song Mustang Sally. It just made me feel special -- like one of those inside jokes between us.”

There was a moment’s silence as Mycroft contemplated this. “No,” he finally said.

He took a dish from her and reached for a cabinet just over her left shoulder. Sally found herself bracketed by his arms and her bum was digging into the counter as he put away the dish. She leaned forward and inhaled his scent as he closed the cabinet door.

“You know what I was just thinking?” she asked, glancing up at him.

“Hmm?” he looked down at her, a blandly questioning expression on his face. She knew he was toying with her, judging by the way he swallowed and the barely-contained heat behind his eyes.

“I haven’t seen the rest of your flat yet.”

“There’s not much else,” Mycroft replied innocently. “Just the bedroom.”

“Well that’s something I haven’t seen yet.”

~*~

“What’s wrong?

Mycroft blinked, unsure of what to say. It had been a mentally taxing day, filled with irritations and annoyances (among them being Sherlock stealing his identification card to waltz in yet again unauthorized into a military facility). He was tired, weary and the only thing he desired was to lose himself in the refuge of Sally and her flat.

He stopped dicing an onion before he glanced at her. She was leaning against the countertop, beer bottle at her lips, eyes studying him intently. Part of his body twitched traitorously as he recalled those lips doing certain things to his body.

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “Nothing which concerns you.”

Her brow furrowed and she let out a frustrated huff. That was not a good sign. Mycroft continued to concentrate on making dinner for them. For some reason, he suddenly wished he had his suitcoat on and not had rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows -- it was making him feel vulnerable in ways that he didn’t want to contemplate.

“Really? ‘Cos you look like you’re about to drive that knife through the board and my counter and that’s a concern of mine,” she challenged.

He put the knife down, placed his hands on the counter and silently counted to ten. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her -- she had proven she was trustworthy two years about when she remained silent regarding Sherlock’s not-quite-dead status. This was not her concern, not her battle and as a result, he did not want to burden her with it.

“I would rather not discuss it,” he said slowly. “It is not worth the time nor concern. I have the solutions, it is a matter of putting them into motion.”

Sally gently bumped him over from the counter with her hip and took the knife from him. Finishing up where he left off, she nodded. “Fair enough,” she said, her expression guarded.

“You disagree?” he felt his throat getting tight and a coil of worry twist in his belly. Where had he made an error? Was this decision not the prudent one?

She glanced over at him. “Look,” she began, “I’m used to the whole ‘stiff upper lip’ thing. It’s in our nature. But --” she reached over and gently cradled his face. Mycroft found himself leaning into her touch, closing his eyes and he attempted to lose himself her heat, the scent of her, the whorls on her fingerprints. He wanted to forget about his day and pull that tacky “Greetings from Pawnee, Indiana” shirt off, strip her of her yoga pants and bury himself in her until he forgot about all those niggling problems of the day.

“But you don’t need to do that with me,” she continued, bringing him back to reality. “I want you to feel like you can talk to me. I’m here for you -- let me help.”

Mycroft nodded. Externally, he remained calm and poised, but internally he felt unmoored. Her touch was electric and he felt himself losing control under the horrible power of sentiment. He could name the chemicals in play -- dopamine, oxytocin and norepinephrine -- but he couldn’t say why he reacted that way around her, which frustrated him. Yet here he was, brought to his metaphorical knees by an ordinary detective sergeant who asked nothing of him. At that moment, all he wanted was to make her happy, do everything in his power to keep her safe and content.

His hands moved without his assent, cradling her face as he studied her eyes and saw no fraud. It was so tempting to say that word -- love -- such an odd little word that made absolutely no sense whatsoever, but the word was lodged in his throat, his vocal chords and mouth unable to release it from its prison.

Instead he leaned forward and kissed her, pulling her body flush against his, and hoped against hope that while his brain may not permit him to say it, at least his body could express what he was thinking.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“How’s Brussels?” Sally’s voice sounded far away through the mobile.

“Irritating,” Mycroft said, before sitting on the bed and removing his shoes. “As usual, the EU is nothing more than a group of soft bureaucrats only interested in their self preservation.”

Her chuckle brightened the phone lines. “That’s everywhere,” she replied. “I’ve yet to see any organization not bogged down by paperwork.”

He checked the clock -- 11 p.m. in Brussels, which meant that it was 10 p.m. in London. Mycroft could picture Sally curled up on the couch, telly on a low volume. She was probably wearing a ratty old t-shirt and yoga pants or something of that ilk. Unlike women he had known before, Sally wasn’t enamored with fashion as far as Mycroft could tell. She liked certain types of clothing, but most of it seemed to be driven along the lines of comfort and practicality instead of frills.

“I can tell you’re having a terrible time,” her voice pulled him back to reality, “Well, a more terrible time than usual.”

“How so?”

“You called me,” she replied. “If things were going well, you’d be busy and happy because things are going accordingly.”

The smile on his face was involuntary. “True,” he said. “I am surrounded by simpletons.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true,” Mycroft replied.

Sally chuckled. “How long do you have to be there for?”

“Two more days,” he said. “Come and visit me.”

“You know I can’t drop everything and just hop a plane tomorrow,” she said. “I’ve got work.”

“After I’m done.”

“Still expensive.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You forget who you’re talking to,” he said. “Be ready in two days. You are going to meet me in Bruges. I will send instructions.”

“What if I say no?”

“You won’t.”

There was a bark of laughter. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

“You will not regret it,” he said. “Bruges is quite nice in spring.”

“Bruges eh? Is Colin Farrell going to be there?”

“I believe he’s in America filming some sort of pablum for the masses.”

“You really are impossible,” Sally chuckled. “In two days Mr. Holmes.”

“In two days Ms. Donovan.”

~*~

Bruges was indeed lovely as Mycroft had promised. Sally had seen the city on travel programmes, but visiting in person was completely different. Not to mention, when one has a companion as powerful as Mycroft, who didn't have to say a word or make a glitzy show -- things just happened.

Following his instructions, Sally had found a private jet waiting for her at the airfield, which took her to Brussels. From there, a car took her to boutique hotel hidden on a tree-lined street where the staff was discreet, but very intent on making her a happy client.

Admittedly that was something no other suitor had done before, which impressed Sally. The runner-up was a former beau actually taking the time to text a well-lit, excellently-framed, half-naked shot with the invitation, “You looking for company?”

Mycroft still had work, which she expected. During the day she was left to her own devices, which wasn’t terrible. Sally found herself exploring some of the running trails, purchasing chocolates at the many chocolatiers, sampling Belgian beers or having an excellent coffee in a cafe as she enjoyed a book. In the afternoon, she wandered around historic Bruges taking pictures of the buildings and canals.

He would return in the evening and the two of them would wander the streets looking for a meal. Somehow he managed to find the best mussels and frites and they’d swap stories over dinner.

“You never travelled?” Mycroft asked one night over a dinner of shrimp croquettes, a stew filled with many creatures of the sea, and a red Flemish Ale.

Sally shook her head. “We didn’t have money,” she recalled. “The biggest trip was going back to Jamaica to see Mum’s family -- that was a fun couple of weeks where I’d just play on the beach, hang out with family and swim. We would do that every couple of years, when we saved up enough.”

“But Paris is right across the channel -- why not go?”

“We didn’t have much money,” Sally repeated. “Literally. Holidays were camping in Wales -- other kids would go somewhere fun and for me it was camping in Wales. In the rain. With damp sandwiches. Dad would try to fish -- he was always awful at it -- and he’d drag me and Mum out for walks. I remember being stuck in the muck, screaming bloody murder, and unable to move because if I did, I’d leave my boots behind in the mud.”

Mycroft chuckled, obviously relishing the image of a young Sally stuck in the mud, shrieking as the rain poured down on them. Sally didn’t blame him, because it was a hilarious image.

After dinner, he would say, “We’re going to Belfort,” or some other sight, and despite the fact that the sign said the attraction was closed, somehow it would be open for them. The Belfort tower was impressive. The stairs were endlessly narrow and steep, but the view from the top was worth every step.

“This was where we tried to drop centimes onto tourists,” Mycroft told her as they stared out at the gentle glow below. “Mummy caught onto our scheme and we were promptly dragged out.”

Sally laughed at the image of a young Sherlock and Mycroft -- not that she could imagine Mycroft as a young boy -- attempting to slip a coin out between the chicken wire to drop onto people.

“Sherlock said it was my fault,” Mycroft mused at the memory. “Really, he was the one who wanted to test the terminal velocity of a coin.”

“You know the height of this tower wouldn’t result in even injuring someone,” Sally said. “You probably would give someone a terrific headache though.”

“That sums up my relationship with my brother perfectly,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

As they walked back to the hotel, they passed a pair of street musicians -- one on a concertina and the other on a violin -- performing a tango. The music floated in the air, following them as they turned down an alley.

Suddenly Sally found herself in Mycroft’s arms, as he spun her around. One hand fit into his, and the other draped across his shoulder as they danced. He was warm and she could hear him humming the melody as he pressed his cheek to hers.

If he was trying to woo her, he was doing a damned fine job of it, Sally mused as they swayed.  He was a pretty good dancer, guiding her with a gentle touch at the small of her back.

The music stopped, the lilting strains of the violin fading away into the night and Sally pulled away. The two resumed walking, but Sally kept her hand in his.

“What was that for?” she asked.

“I had to test a hypothesis.”

“Really? What was it?”

“You were a dancer once.”

Sally chuckled, as she squeezed his hand. “Ballet. How did you guess?”

“I noticed that you stand with your knees hyperextended. It’s a common dancer trait,” he sounded practically smug at that.

“You date a lot of dancers?”

“I notice things,” Mycroft sniffed. “How long were you a dancer?”

“I was serious about it until about fifteen,” Sally mused. “Then I had a really bad year and got booted out of ballet school.”

He glanced over at her. “Whatever for?”

“The other dancers made fun of me,” she recalled, a bit of bitterness rising up in her throat. “The teacher used to say I had the potential to become a professional -- and I wanted to -- but the other dancers were just a bunch of snots about it.”

“What happened?”

“The usual bullying,” she recalled. “It went on for awhile and I endured it. Then one girl told me I would never make it to the corps de ballet because I didn’t have the right look. So I headbutted her as a starting move and things got worse from there.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched upward. “Not exactly the most appropriate response,” he said, squeezing her hand.

Sally nodded. “I got kicked out of the school and my parents were aghast. It had been a bad year -- I was fighting a lot, being a wisearse, that sort of thing -- and they sent me off to spend a summer with one of my uncles in Swansea. Uncle Davey’s a copper and I ended up learning a lot about the job. He’s a tough old bastard and gave me the routine I probably needed. By the time I came back, plans had changed. I wanted to become a police officer instead.”

“And the world is a safer place.”

“At least the ballet corps are, since I’m not in them.”

On the last morning before they returned to London, Mycroft took her to Hugo Verrieststraat, to watch finches sing.

“What exactly is the point of this again?” Sally asked.

“Vinkzettingen is a contest,” Mycroft said. “The goal is to see which finch can chirp the most in an hour.” From there, he began to explain the rules and how only a certain chirp -- “susk-WEET” was considered acceptable. It was at the chirp that Sally burst out laughing.

“This is a very serious sport,” Mycroft continued. “I’ve seen people in the more shadowy corners of our world bet thousands if not more on these contests. The information traded at these contests could be considered major threats to national security.”

Sally shook her head. “I believe you,” she said, because she knew he would know this sort of thing. “It’s just so fanciful though.”

“No more unusual than seeing the heads of the organized crime families in Taipei shrimp fishing,” Mycroft remarked, before holding his arm out. “Shall we? Our car is waiting for us.”

“Can we stop at a chocolatier first?” she asked, taking his arm. “I’d like to get a little something for the trip back.”

He rewarded her with one of his rare smiles. “We can always make time for chocolate.”

~*~

Even though the exterior world raged with familial concerns and Sally, Mycroft attended to his work with the ascetic devotion of a monk. He found it easy to enter a meditative mindset as he navigated the messy political arenas and other day-to-day duties. What was a crisis of epic proportions  for some was a Thursday for him.

He never worried about Sally’s personal safety when he wasn’t with her. Mycroft worried about Sherlock, but that was a norm. Sherlock was impulsive, unnaturally attracted to danger and his emotional attachments were proving to be complicated the farther they extended. Sally, on the other hand, was pragmatic and practical in her decisions, which made it less likely that her life would be in danger.

So when Anthea came in his office one sunny afternoon, agony written on her face, Mycroft instantly thought something had happened to Sherlock. A drug overdose, someone shot him, Moriarty, something had happened to his baby brother and that created the exquisite sensation of fear. Something had happened to the only person that truly understood the isolation of being a genius.

Not once did Mycroft think that something could have happened to Sally.

 


	8. Chapter 8

She couldn’t help it. Sally had to add a little strut to her step as she, Lestrade and Sherlock headed to the tunnel near the bank. The teams had already moved into position and everyone was waiting for the two suspects to come out.

“Don’t know why you’re here,” Sally said to Sherlock. “Never thought you were the type to watch a collar happen.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I wanted to make sure you followed my instructions,” he said. “I know Lestrade has been upset about the whole matter and if we can cease their wiggling out of convictions, I know everyone will be happy.”

Sally grinned back. “Makes this a better day than the usual ones,” she replied as they reached the tunnel opening.

Lestrade looked down into the tunnel, “Duncan Ross and John Clay come on out! This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and you’re under arrest,” he shouted down.

Duncan Ross -- a cleanly shaven white man in his 40s came out of the tunnel, hands raised. Police officers swarm around him and he was quickly handcuffed.

“Come on out Clay,” Lestrade roared down the tunnel. “Your mate just came up and you know you can’t stay down there forever.”

Clay -- another white man, older by a few years, stuck his head out and raised his hands up. His eyes locked on Sherlock and a feral snarl formed on his lips. “You --” he snarled. His hands whipped forward and Sally caught glint of the muzzle in his sleeve.

“Gun!” she yelled and shoved Sherlock as the gunshot roared through the room. A white-hot pain burned through her arm as she attempted to remain standing, but the pain was too great and she found herself crumpling to the floor as the room went dazzlingly white.

~*~

Sally stared at the ceiling, feeling woozy as the pain medication slowly took over.

“Why is the room spinning?” she asked. “What the hell happened to me?”

Lestrade looked down at her. “You were shot Sally,” Lestrade began. “Remember we were trying to collar Duncan Ross and John Clay for robbery? Sherlock had led us to them.”

“Oh yeah,” Sally drawled. “The Freak,” she giggled as the drugs took hold. “Clay drew first didn’t he?”

Lestrade nodded. “Was going to shoot Sherlock, but for some reason, you had an act of charity and shoved him out of the way.”

_Molly is going to owe me for that one_ , Sally thought to herself, then asked, “Did you call my parents?”

“Well, they’re listed as your emergency contacts,” Lestrade said. “Of course we contacted them.”

“And Clay?”

“Arrested and now charged with attempted murder,” Lestrade added. “Just rest a bit. They’ve got you stitched up, but obviously you’ve gone through a bit of shock so take your time getting ready. We managed to get you in a quiet area, so you’ve got plenty of time to rest.”

Sally struggled to sit up. Lestrade moved over and helped her move into position. She looked down and saw her left arm bandaged.

“It’s fucking embarrassing,” she said, staring at the bandage. “Blacking out after getting grazed by a bullet. Who does that? Rookies, that’s who.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Sally,” he began. “You were shot at. You’re lucky it was a graze. It could’ve been worse. Be happy for that,” he grabbed her hand. “I’ve got to get back and deal with the paperwork. Take a couple of days off -- you’ve earned them.”

“Was this a good day boss?” she asked, a crooked grin on her face.

He grinned back. “We got them, so yeah, it was a good day. You’re not dead or out of commission, so that’s a great day.”

Sally raised her good arm and waved as Lestrade left. She lifted the bandage and winced at the angry looking gash on her arm -- there were apparently twenty stitches sealing up the wound, but some of those stitches looked like they were wavering around, so she wasn’t quite sure.

Covering it again, Sally flexed her arm and her fingers, thankful that the wound wasn’t worse. It could’ve been more severe, but for some reason, someone somewhere was looking out for her.

She heard the door open and glanced up. Mycroft was standing there with the “what-on-Earth-have-you-done-now” stare, but he was more pale than usual.

“I’m fine,” she said, swinging her legs off of the bed. “My parents are going to be coming -- which is going to add to the hysterics, so if you don’t want to be around for that, I understand.”

Mycroft stalked over to her. “What. The. Devil. Happened?” he spit out.

Sally shrugged and averted his gaze. “Someone pulled a gun and tried to shoot your brother,” she mumbled. “I shoved him out of the way.”

“Why would you do something so idiotic?”

“I’m sorry,” Sally’s eyes shot up and locked with his. “I thought you’d be grateful that I made sure your precious little brother didn’t get injured. And this is part of my job, right?” She stood up. “Stuff like this happens.”

Mycroft’s lips thinned. “Why did you think this was a good idea?” he said again. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” Sally retorted. “I was working on instinct and doing my job. This is what I do. I thought you’d know that by now, given your job.”

“My job rarely has me dealing with slack-jawed morons who don’t know how to accurately shoot a pistol and come out guns blazing as if they’re the heroes of an action movie,” Mycroft replied.

She let out a frustrated sigh. “OK,” she said. “My parents are going to be here soon and really, unless you want an interrogation that rivals what your minions can do, I suggest that you leave.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Are you afraid to introduce me?” he asked.

“Is this really the right time?” she asked. “Their only daughter has been injured and suddenly it’s, ‘Mum! Dad! Here’s the guy I’ve been dating that I never told you about!’”

“You have a point,” he said. “I will see you later tonight,” Mycroft leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Forgive my outburst.”

“I’ll call you later. Mum and Dad are going to be a bit protective,” she reached up with her uninjured arm and gently touched his hand. “It’ll be fine.”

Mycroft pulled back, his face a neutral mask. “Good evening,” he turned and left.

Watching Mycroft stalk out of the infirmary doors, Sally wondered who she was trying to reassure with her words and whether or not she was speaking the truth.

~*~

He could fix this.

Mycroft sat at his table in his flat, tumbler of whiskey in front of him and pondered the situation. The answer was fairly clear and he knew he could implement it easily and efficiently. Lestrade may protest, but Mycroft felt that he would be able to understand the reasoning behind the action.

Pulling out his laptop, Mycroft typed out an e-mail, putting his plan into action.

He was going to fix this.

~*~

Sally’s arm hurt like hell in the morning. She stumbled out of bed and wandered into the kitchen, seeking coffee and a moment to get her bearings. Her parents had fussed over her all night, making it impossible for her to even ring Mycroft and let him know she was fine. Not that she wanted to, to be honest. She knew there was going to be a confrontation regarding her career that she didn’t want to contemplate.

Her parents had left late last night after her mother insisted on feeding her and her father fussed over her and made her take the painkillers -- “You need your rest,” he lectured, handing her the water and tablets. It didn’t help that once again, Sally’s mother groused about how dangerous the job was, what had this world come to and how her baby was a hero and deserved multiple awards.

Thankfully they left after Sally had fallen asleep. Even better, her mother had set up the coffee maker with a note “TURN ME ON” stuck to it. She also made some breakfast and stuck it in the refrigerator for Sally. “EAT ME,” the post-it note said on a container of porridge.

Breakfast helped a bit. Sally was in the midst of contemplating calling Mycroft when there was a pounding on her door. Rising, she headed to the door to see Lestrade through the peephole.

“Morning,” she said as she opened the door. “Did you need help with paperwork?”

Lestrade’s face had a worried look. “Can I come in to talk?  I got something and I wanted to talk to you about it.”

Sally invited him in, “Is it a medal?” she asked as she headed to the kitchen. “Because I feel like I went above and beyond the usual duty in protecting the Freak.”

Odd -- she didn’t hear the usual chuckle that she’d hear from him when she cracked a joke. She turned around and studied him. “What’s going on boss?”

Lestrade reached into his coat and handed her a sheaf of papers. “Just read this,” he said.

Sally opened them and scanned them. They were papers requesting a transfer from Lestrade’s division to an office within MI5, signed and stamped with approvals. She looked up at him in confusion. “When did you get these?”

“This morning,” he said. “They were part of the morning mail.”

Sally motioned for him to sit down. “Coffee?” she asked.

“Please.”

Sally headed to the kitchen, swearing under her breath. _Mycroft_ she cursed. Of course he would do this, she thought. It was something that a control freak like him would do in an attempt to keep her safe. The not consulting her part was new and that troubled her.

She returned with the coffee and handed it to Lestrade. He took a sip. “Now really, if you were that unhappy after getting shot, we could work something out,” he said, somewhat jokingly.

“I never filled out those papers,” Sally said, her face getting hot under his gaze. “Mum and Dad were here all night fussing over me and you know that no one can get approvals for things like this overnight.”

Lestrade’s mouth twisted into a toothy grin. “Oh there’s one person who can,” he said. “Now what on earth are you doing under the benevolent protection of Mycroft Holmes?”

Sally sighed, her face reddening even more under his stare. “Why are you asking me about that? That’s my personal life and none of your business and --” her voice trailed off as she looked for a redirection. “And I’ve been a professional copper and you’re not my father.”

Lestrade began laughing. “So you and the Croft?”

She joined in the laughter -- it was just so absurd. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Been a couple months now.”

Lestrade’s guffawing slowed, “Do you realize what you’ve gotten into?” he asked. “Does he even get involved with people? I thought he slept in his office like a vampire and lived on the souls of his vanquished.”

“I know, it’s weird, but it was nice,” Sally said. “Bit overzealous -- like a genie gone amuck, but he meant well.”

“You realize you’re using past tense,” Lestrade said, sipping his coffee.

“This is overstepping lines,” Sally said. “This is not just leaving flowers on my kitchen table or pots of ice cream in my freezer. This is my career he’s meddling with. This was done without my permission and that’s beyond the pale.”

“So I can tell them to go piss up a rope?” Lestrade’s expression was practically gleeful.

Sally nodded. “I’m going to go deal with him later. This is unacceptable.”

There was a moment of companionable silence between the two of them as they sipped their coffee. Lestrade was the first to break it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I haven’t even told my parents, so it’s not like I was purposely excluding you. I just wanted to enjoy that thing we had between us without people asking about it, giving advice or passing judgments.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Makes sense, and you don’t want to make a fuss about something that may not turn out to be anything, yeah?”

Sally nodded, shoving away the pang of sadness at Lestrade’s last sentence. That would be examined later, when she had time to think.

He finished his coffee. “I’ve got to get back to the office,” he said. “But I promise I will take great relish in telling them off and that you’re not leaving my division.” He stood and slapped her on the back. “How’s the arm?”

“Feels like burning, but I still can throw a punch,” she answered. “Now tell them to fuck off.”

Lestrade laughed, “should I add an extra ‘Fucker’ to the reply?”

“Couldn’t hurt. Just makes the answer more clear.”

~*~

In the harsh light of morning, Mycroft wondered if he made a mistake with his actions from the previous night. But the action was already done, so there was nothing else to be done, but wait.

She hadn’t called during the night, which worried him, but from what he could tell via CCTV, her parents stayed late into the night -- no doubt clucking over her career choice and caring for her. As an only child, Sally probably was used to this and as far as he could tell, she tolerated it for mysterious reasons.

As the lunch hour rolled around, Mycroft headed to the Diogenes Club for some quiet in hope that it would ease the worries bubbling up in his subconscious. He was sitting in his favorite chair for approximately an hour, before a steward came over to him.

“There’s a woman in the Stranger’s Room,” he whispered to Mycroft. “A Sergeant Donovan.”

Mycroft paled. She was using her job title. This was not a good sign.

“How did she appear?” he asked.

“Calm, though she isn’t quite at ease,” the young man said.

He nodded. “I will attend to her,” he said. The steward left and he took a moment to collect his thoughts, then prepared for the oncoming battle.

Yes, what he did was definitely a mistake, Mycroft thought. But it was one he couldn’t see regretting at this moment.

Sally was in the Stranger’s Room, staring out the window. She was dressed in her work clothes -- a professional black pantsuit with a grey blouse. Battle armor, Mycroft thought to himself.

“Sergeant Donovan,” he said, once the door was closed. “How may I help you?”

She turned to look at him and shook her head. “What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped.

“I thought that your talents would be served better elsewhere,” Mycroft replied. “I feel your intelligence is underestimated and you’d be a valuable asset with me.”

“Bollocks,” she spat out. “It’s because of what happened yesterday isn’t it?”

“You’ve complained about your job before -- the people, the idiocy of others, bureaucracy -- why not move onto bigger things?” he attempted to dodge the question. “You’re better than that I, wholeheartedly, believe it. The events of yesterday just made me realize your talents belong elsewhere.”

Sally shook her head. “You really are thick,” she said. “Let me explain this to you. I love my job --”

“You complain about it,” he interrupted.

“I bitch about paperwork and your brother,” she snapped. “You honestly believe I would be happier pushing papers for you? Sitting in an office all day doing nothing but reports? Do you know how often I fantasize about setting those reports on fire so I don’t have to do them?”

He closed his eyes. She was right -- the few times she complained it was always centered on paperwork and Sherlock. Sally was a good officer, with a talent for dealing with people and navigating the morass of legal hurdles and emotionally charged situations. Putting her in an office doing nothing but filing and analyzing reports would suffocate her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking into her eyes. All he could see were the tears welling up and her biting her lip. “I only wanted to protect you.”

“Can you promise me you will never do something like that again?” she asked, voice shaking. “I can’t --” She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Please tell me you won’t do this again.”

His heart was hammering in this throat as adrenaline poured into his system. It would be easy to lie and say no, he wouldn’t interfere. It was obviously what she wanted to hear and it would be so simple to make things right again. But it would be a lie -- one he couldn’t even promise himself that he could turn into truth later.

“I’m sorry,” he said brokenly. “I can’t. Losing you would break my heart.”

Sally bit her lip and swallowed hard. He wanted to go to her, hold her, tell her whatever he could to make her forgive him, but something kept him rooted to his place.

“Right then,” she said after a moment. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

He sucked in a deep breath. “I do love you.”

She wiped a tear away, “I love you too,” her voice shook. “But I can’t be with someone who I can’t trust. And if you can’t promise me you won’t upend my life without talking to me, I can’t trust you.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

Sally moved close and looked him over, a sad resigned smile on her face, "But do you? really?" She leaned in and brushed a quick kiss on his cheek, then walked past him.

It wasn’t until he heard the door click behind him that Mycroft sank into the wingback chair. 


	9. Chapter 9

Normally she wouldn’t have just popped over to Molly’s flat without contacting her first, but Sally felt like today was an exception, given what had happened to her. Besides, she also knew it was Molly’s day off.

_And if she’s not there, I will drink this bottle of rum I purchased all by myself until I forget about Mycroft Holmes,_ she thought to herself, as she used her key to get into the building. Molly had given her the key when Sally had babysat Toby, so it wasn’t like breaking and entering. And Molly had a key to Sally’s flat, so she felt that things were even because of this.

What Sally didn’t expect as she unlocked Molly’s door and entered was Sherlock, wrapped in a bedsheet, hair mussed and drinking coffee as he tapped away on his laptop.

He glanced over at her. “Sally Donovan,” he intoned.

“What the hell?”

Molly burst out of the bathroom, clad only in a towel, hair dripping wet. “Sally!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you. Why didn’t you call?”

Sally ignored the daggers Molly was shooting at her. “I broke it off with Mycroft,” she said.

“Oh shit,” Molly sighed.

“You are smarter than you initially appear,” Sherlock said, eyes still locked on the laptop.

“I’m sorry,” Sally began. “I know I’m being a total self-centered bitch, but -- “ her voice trembled, “I need you Molly. Because if you’re not around, I’m going to drink this bottle of rum and then pay all the taggers I know to write ‘THE CROFT IS A TWAT’ in front of all the CCTV cameras in London. And I can ask for this, since I saved the life of your boyfriend over there.”

Molly whipped her head over to Sherlock. “What?”

“Oh yeah. That,” he scratched his head. “Was helping Lestrade and them with a robbery, guy came out of the tunnel, pulled a gun, tried to shoot me, but Sally shoved him to the side and --” he narrowed his eyes and looked at Sally. “Was grazed? Had to be grazed, given that you look fine. How many stitches did you get?”

“What? You can’t deduce it from there?” Sally felt a moment of relief for a distraction.

“Can’t. The suit jacket is covering your arm,” he squinted. “Fourteen?”

“Sixteen.”

Setting her jaw, Molly nodded, then turned to Sherlock. “Right,” she said. “Sherlock, out.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Why?”

“‘Cos you’re not invited in this,” Molly said. “And you did not mention that my best mate got shot defending you, or that you got shot at, so I’m a bit peeved right now.”

“There’s nothing out there to do,” he whined. “No cases, everything is quiet.”

Molly headed into the bedroom. Sally heard the sound of drawers opening and slamming shut. Sherlock remained hunched over the laptop reading the screen. Toby wandered over to Sally and wrapped himself around her legs, meowing hello.

A few minutes later, Molly came out in a pair of track pants and t-shirt. She was tapping on Sherlock’s phone. “I’ve texted John,” she said as she headed over to the table and slammed the laptop shut. “You’re going to meet him at Baker Street and pick a case out of the numerous e-mails sent to you. You are going out and solving the case, then picking another one. You are not coming back until I say it is fine to do so. Are we clear?”

He sullenly nodded, then got up. The sheet, which was tangled around a chair leg, tightened, then slipped off his body as he sulked into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Sally glanced over at Molly, who was red with embarrassment. “I feel the need to say that even though I wouldn’t want him for all the money in the world, you did good,” Sally said. “Well done Molly Hooper.”

Molly burst out laughing as she headed over to Sally and gave her a hug. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I just barged into your place at two in the afternoon with a bottle of rum, so I think that answers that question.”

Molly pulled away and got two glasses out of a cabinet. “We’ll wait until Sherlock leaves,” she said as she rummaged in the pantry for fizzy drinks and snacks. “Then you have to tell me everything.”

A few minutes later, Sherlock came out of the bedroom, looking like he stepped out of a fashion show with his suit. From her position on the sofa Sally watched as Molly stepped close to Sherlock. Some soft words were murmured, Molly gave him a peck on the cheek and Sherlock was gently pushed out the door.

“Right,” Molly said. “Let’s get an afternoon drunk going.”

Like past comfort sessions, this one took awhile for the tale to be told. Not because Sally wouldn’t talk about it -- far from that -- but more the natural winding rambles that discussions often take led them to other areas.

“I fucked up,” Sally said from her position on the floor, staring at the ceiling. “I knew he was a control freak when we met and yet --”

“You didn’t fuck up,” she said, shaking her head. “You fell for him and he just -- he’s a control freak. And ice cream is one thing, but your job? What the hell was that?”

Sally shrugged and flexed her arm. “I am so glad I’m not taking those painkillers,” she slurred as she poked at the stitches. “That would’ve really fucked me up by now.”

Molly pulled Sally’s hand away from the wound. “Well, you’re not going home tonight,” Molly said. “You’re too inebriated to do so.”

“I don’t really want to either,” Sally’s eyes teared up. “I love -- loved -- him, but that? He even told me I can’t trust him to not interfere with my life. He doesn’t even trust me to not know what’s best for me.  How the hell do you do a relationship after that?”

Molly stretched out on the couch and glanced down at Sally, who had tears streaming down her face. She rolled off the couch and snuggled next to Sally, hugging her and wiping her tears away. “He’s an idiot,” she said as Sally sobbed into her shoulder. “No, he’s seven idiots. Thinking that he could just put you in a little box like some sort of pet.”

“I’m a fucking idiot for thinking this could’ve worked,” Sally sniffed.

“Maybe you can talk later about it? Isn’t love supposed to conquer all?”

“But if you don’t have trust, is there love?”

~*~

_Dull, dull, dull,_ Sherlock sulked as he stared across at his brother. _So it’s come to this._

Having blazed through the list of e-mails and requests with John, Sherlock was dismayed to see that Molly had not texted him inviting him back to her flat. Fortunately John and Mary were at work, so he would have a few hours of quiet. That’s what he thought until Mycroft came to pay him a visit around teatime.

As tempting as it was to tell Mycroft that Sally was at Molly’s flat and tell him to go get her so he could return to Molly’s, Sherlock decided against it when he saw the dour expression on Mycroft’s face. Of course Mycroft would know where to find her -- it was just a matter of that he could not go where he wanted to be thanks to some overdeveloped sense of honor due to a promise he made.

They quickly settled into their usual routine of flinging jibes at each other, until the words ran out and Sherlock insisted on playing a game, though he would never admit it was to try and take Mycroft’s mind off of his troubles. Chess was too dull -- often ending in stalemate between the two of them -- so Sherlock decided Rummikub would be a better game. Despite Mycroft rolling his eyes and calling the game “childish,” he agreed to Sherlock’s proposal.

An uneasy silence settled over the flat as the two started the game, while moves had been quick for awhile, Mycroft seemed to get stuck on a particular move and was sitting there, fingers steepled together and brow furrowed as he was staring at the tiles.

Sherlock sighed in annoyance, then rose and headed to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. As the water was boiling, he wandered past and looked over Mycroft’s shoulder. The tiles were neatly lined up and in order according to color and numerical groupings.

“It’s a shame you can’t get your private life as neatly ordered as your tiles,” Sherlock mused.

Mycroft’s hand shot out and seized Sherlock’s wrist and the consulting detective found himself pinned to the table, arm bent backwards, cheek pressed against the discarded tiles. Pain emanated out of his wrist as Mycroft bent his hand. Somehow, Mycroft’s chair had been kicked back and he was now towering over his brother and his other hand kept him pressed to the table. Sherlock had forgotten how quick Mycroft could be when provoked.

Keeping the lock on Sherlock’s hand, Mycroft bent down. “I am perfectly fine, brother mine,” he hissed in Sherlock’s ear. “Contrary to what you or anyone else may think.”

“This is not the sign of a man who has control,” Sherlock muttered from the table. It was hard to articulate with the tiles digging into his cheek.

Mycroft released Sherlock and backed away. “I’m aware you know of my personal situation,” he adjusted his cuffs and suit jacket. “I am fine, I’ve forgotten about it already.”

Sherlock flexed his arm and wrist, then turned to Mycroft. “You never forget anything.”

“How would you know?” Mycroft buttoned his coat. “Now, I must return to work,” and with that, he stormed out of the flat.

Sherlock flopped back in his chair, then picked up his mobile and tapped on it.

_Is it safe to return? -- SH_

_No. Sally’s staying over here tonight. She’s not doing well at all. -- MH_

_Just had an encounter with my brother. He claims to have forgotten about her -- SH_

_Really? -- MH_

Sherlock could imagine the loyal anger rolling off of Molly in waves. How dare Mycroft forget her friend and what their relationship had meant in a few short hours? He could also picture her plotting various icy, civil interactions that would end awkwardly for Mycroft. The whole thing made him chuckle.

_Of course not. He just attempted to dislocate my shoulder at the merest hint of her -- SH_

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft wasn’t exactly telling the whole truth that he had forgotten about Sally or erased her from his mind. He hadn’t completely erased her from memory, but he was giving it a valiant effort.

Her room in his mind no longer existed. He moved his realm of comfort elsewhere -- where exactly he was still trying to determine. But it was no longer Codrophenia, the warm details of her flat or even Bruges. That area he continued to work at deleting and erasing.

The problem with being a genius who remembers everything is that you can’t forget, Mycroft quickly realized. But he could managed the size and shape of her mark. He shrank it down to the size of a pin head and then boarded it up and buried it under whatever unpleasant detritus he could find. American television, pop music, Mummy’s constant questions about his personal life, Sherlock’s screeching on the violin. Anything to avoid accidentally stumbling upon her memories again.

As time passed, Mycroft also sought refuge in his work, waging currency wars in China, dabbling a bit in a government uprising in another country, watching information stream in and out of the country in all sort of ways and watching over Sherlock, who was very intent on keeping things from him. Which amused Mycroft to no end. _As if he could deceive me_ , Mycroft thought to himself, before deciding against interfering in his little brother’s plans, despite the temptation.

So it was understandable people didn’t notice that Mycroft was even involved with someone or they thought he was handling the end of a relationship remarkably well. Sometimes he congratulated himself on surviving the loss of Sally. But during quiet moments as he was lost in thought, he’d hear water bubbling from an unknown location or the citrus scent of orange blossoms would waft through and Mycroft would realize things weren’t as copacetic as he imagined.

~*~

There were a lot of things Sally expected when she returned to work, but a standing ovation was probably the most mortifying and least expected thing.

Ducking her head down, she nodded hello to her colleagues as she slunk to her desk, which was covered in news clippings with headlines that screamed HEROIC SACRIFICE TO SAVE BOFFIN DETECTIVE and DONOVAN DATING DEERSTALKER DETECTIVE?

“Yeah, yeah,” she said after the applause stopped. “Let’s just stop OK? I’m just ready for work. This is just silly.”

She took the news clippings and shoved them in the paper shredder, before settling down to clear out the e-mail that had piled up during her absence. After a few minutes of quiet, Lestrade sidled up next to Sally’s desk and plunked a cup of coffee on her desk.

“I must’ve done something amazing to earn this,” Sally said as she took the cup and sipped.

He grinned down at her. “Got a call about a murder over in Lambeth,” he began. “Now I know that you just returned -- two days early I might add --”

“Tis merely a scratch,” Sally deadpanned.

“In any case, I understand if you’re feeling a little gun shy and Sherlock may be there,” Lestrade looked serious for a moment, fixing her with his best fatherly stare, “But I was wondering if you wanted to come along?”

“I’ve been cleared to go out on investigations, all of these emails are requests for interviews about Sherlock and I’m already bored,” Sally stood up. “In other words, God yes I want to go out.”

Lestrade’s hand touched her elbow and she looked over at him.

“I’m serious,” he lowered his voice. “Are you going to be good around Sherlock given your past --” he made a hand motion that was not, thankfully, obscene.

Sally felt a pang of melancholy radiate through her, then she shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she replied. “Just let me do my job.”

A slow smile broke over his face, “In that case, it’s a pleasure to have you back Sergeant.”

~*~

_ You busy? _

Sally stared at her pile of paperwork, then tapped on her mobile. _Work’s been mental._

_ But not so busy that you can’t have lunch? With your best friend who misses you? _

Sally blinked again, then realized that she hadn’t talked to Molly, minus quick texts for a few weeks. _Just paperwork I’ve been dealing with, but I can make an hour or so for lunch._

Two hours later, the two women were in St. Bart’s canteen, inspecting their sandwiches.

“We should’ve gone to Caffe Nero,” Sally said as she pulled a limp lettuce leaf out of her sandwich.

Molly chuckled, then bit into her food. “It works,” she said, “Besides, the more important thing is that I haven’t seen you in forever, so I just wanted to know what you’ve been up to.”

“Work,” Sally began. “I’ve also been busy helping Uncle Charlie at his gym on Saturdays -- his last trainer left for New York and he asked me to teach the beginner’s class on Saturday mornings until he finds a new trainer.”

“You mean Uncle Charlie, the former amateur flyweight boxing champion,” Molly began.

“Yup,” Sally grinned. “It’s been fun, but it’s funny seeing the blokes -- they don’t like taking instruction from a woman. Keep questioning me at all times.”

“You pop one in the nose yet?”

“I’m not allowed to do sparring, but if one of these guys slips up again with their combos, I’m going to take my target mitts and slap them upside the head.”

“And work?”

“Mental,” Sally nibbled on her sandwich. “Lestrade’s just been giving me a ton of work lately and things have been picking up with the weather getting good and tourists coming, so there’s been a lot of cases to sort through -- nothing too interesting for Sherlock, because it’s all petty little things.”

“Tell me about it,” Molly said. “He’s been stalking about complaining about how bored he is and how unfair it is that I have to work and I’m not around to amuse him, so he’s been coming to the lab to run experiments.”

“How the hell does he get clearance for that?” Sally asked. “That’s always been one of the great mysteries for me.”

Molly blanched for a moment. “Um --”

“You can say his name,” Sally said. “He’s not Voldemort.”

“ _He,_ ” Molly squeaked out, “made the clearance happen. So he shows up and gets stuff without problems and that’s how it is,” she waved her fingers. “Magic! Anyways, what else have you been up to?”

Sally noted that Molly quickly changed the subject and ignored it, despite the fact that Molly was focusing all her attention on Sally, which was starting to feel more like an interrogation than a conversation. “Well, there’s been a pottery class I’ve been taking, just to try something new,” she began. “My cousin, Avis, asked me to join her, so I’ve been doing that on Wednesday nights,” Sally pulled out her mobile and brought some pictures up for Molly. “See, that’s what I’ve been working on.”

Molly took the phone and smiled, “That’s a really nice mug,” she said, “And the fish are really pretty too. Reminds me of Matisse’s fish.” She handed the mobile back

Sally smiled. “Thanks,” she said as she put the phone away. “So that’s been basically it.”

They ate in silence for a bit, but instead of the usual easy companionable quiet, there was an underlying tension that Sally could sense. Putting down her sandwich, she leaned back in the chair and stared at Molly, “Out with it,” she said.

“What?” Molly blinked, trying to look innocent.

“Oh come on,” Sally leaned forward. “You are a hideous liar with me. Normally when we talk, we’re both talking about ourselves. Today you’ve done an interrogation. And if you’re worried I’m going to freak out about the last name Holmes, that’s not a problem. I’m fine. So what is going on?” her eyes widened. “Oh. My. God,” she gasped. “You’re pregnant.”

“No!” Molly said a bit more violently than intended. “OK, fine,” she sighed, as if she had been caught doing something illicit. “Here’s the thing -- we’re having a party this weekend. Saturday afternoon, around tea time, at Baker Street. I really want you to come. It’s going to be a small thing, no big deal, but he might be there, and I wanted to warn you ahead of time. And we haven’t talked in forever because it seems like you’re busy with work and all these other things that I really wanted to talk to you. My life’s just the usual rot -- work, the boyfriend, that sort of thing. And all the stuff I want to talk about can’t really be shoehorned into a lunch break, so that’s why I really want you to come to this party.”

“You could’ve said that in the first place.”

Molly looked vaguely guilty. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But will you come? Even if he is there?”

“Who? Voldemort?”

“You know who I mean,” Molly shot Sally a dirty look.

Sally bit her lip and mulled it over. There was definitely something going on that Molly wasn’t willing to talk about, but Saturday was only two days away, so it could probably wait until then. She believed that Molly wasn’t pregnant ( _yet_ \-- her mind helpfully whispered), but whatever big news she had, it obviously was going to wait until the party.

“Yes I’ll be there,” Sally said. “And I’ll be fine around him,” she blanched slightly. “Dammit, now you have me unable to say his name.”

“Yay!” Molly clapped her hands. “So it’ll be around teatime, just come to Baker Street and it’ll be a wonderful time.”

Despite the fact that she was happy that Molly was happy, a worried knot started forming in Sally’s stomach that she knew she was going to have to deal with later.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Standing in front of 221B, Sally’s stomach churned. The door looked the same, except for the little jaunty sign under the knocker:

COME IN! PARTY IS UPSTAIRS!

 _What are you afraid of?_  Sally thought to herself, trying to talk herself into going inside. _It’s been a month and he’s probably forgotten all about you and it’ll be nice and calm. If it gets bad, you can fake food poisoning and leave and promise Molly you’ll meet later for lunch. Or you can text Mum and have her call you with an emergency._

As she was drawing a deep breath, Molly opened the door and hugged Sally. “You’re here!” she squealed as she pulled back. Sally noticed Molly was making a sartorial effort for what was supposed to be a simple tea party by wearing a party frock that had a white floaty skirt and black floral embroidery with hints of sparkle on the bodice. Her ballet flats glittered and her hair was tied back in an Alice band with silk flowers on it.

Sally nodded. “You look amazing,” she managed to say. “I don’t feel overdressed now.”

Molly laughed, “Thank you and don’t worry, he’s not here yet. Come on up though -- nearly everyone is here except for him, but that’s all right. Mum’s here also, so you’ll get to meet her, it’ll be great,” she squeezed Sally’s hand. “It’ll be fine,” she said “Trust me. I need you up there anyways, Sherlock’s parents are up there and they’re nice and all, but it’s just odd.”

“Odd,” Sally arched her eyebrows, “Like how? Are they like the Addams family or what?”

“Stranger,” Molly leaned forward, “They’re perfectly normal,” she whispered, eyes twinkling.

Sally began laughing, then felt the tension dissipate a bit. “You’re trying to make me feel better,” she said.

“Yeah, and it worked,” Molly pulled her into the flat.

“You forget, everyone hates me here.”

“Lestrade is here, so you have someone you know and you have me, not to mention Sherlock doesn’t hate you.”

Sally snorted.

“He treats everyone like that,” Molly said, “You should know that by now.”

“But Mrs. Hudson,” Sally protested weakly, “And John and his wife --”

“I’ve been talking you up to Mary,” Molly replied. “You ply Mrs. Hudson with enough champagne and she’s everyone’s friend. John will be polite. You won some points when you saved Sherlock in that shooting so don’t worry about it. Besides, we haven’t seen each other in forever and I missed you so you are coming up there and having some fun,” she studied Sally. “Good lord, that whole thing really knocked you for a loop.”

“No, I just have a feeling you’re hiding something,” Sally evaded Molly’s observation.

Molly grinned. “Then come upstairs. You’ll find out what when we get up there.”

They headed up the stairs. The last time Sally had been in 221B was to arrest Sherlock, so the entire thing was a bit awkward for her, but seeing the room packed with people made her breathe a little easier. This wasn’t the same situation, and the party was supposedly fun.

The small sitting room was filled with people. John and Mary were sharing a seat, while three older people -- one woman Molly introduced as her mum and the other two were Sherlock’s parents -- crammed together on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson was sitting on a kitchen chair, while Sherlock was in the middle of the room, pacing like a caged tiger. It was quieter than most parties Sally was used to, but then again, she was used to her family gatherings which were filled with music, chatter and video games. Those events tended to start in the afternoon and ran late into the night.

Molly parted from Sally and sidled up to Sherlock as Lestrade immediately approached Sally with a glass of champagne. “Glad you’re here,” he said, pressing the drink into her hand, as he clapped her on the back with his other one. “It’s starting to feel a bit like the final scene in a Poirot movie. I’m expecting Sherlock to tell us which one of us is a murderer.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows quirked for a moment at that comment, “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Everyone’s a potential murderer in the right circumstances. I’m pretty sure Sally has plotted my murder several times.”

“All crimes of passion Sherlock,” Sally retorted. “And mostly with knives. I’d prefer you see me coming.”

Fortunately Sherlock smiled at that line, before turning to Molly, “She’s here, now can we?”

“What about Mycroft?” Molly asked. “Won’t he be put out that you didn’t tell him?”

“Mycroft already knows we are married,” Sherlock said.

Sally choked on her drink, but gleefully noted that John’s expression was as surprised as hers and a cloud of exasperation was passing over his face. Mary looked entirely too amused by the situation and she observed that Lestrade had a crooked grin on his face.

There was a moment of silence, then the parents leaped forward, hugging the two of them. The “Oh my God!” and “What on Earth!” sounds drowned out everything else for a moment as Sherlock and Molly disappeared under a flurry of arms and clucking.

“Did you even know they were dating?” John asked Mary, who shook her head with a merry smile on her lips.

“Enough!” Sherlock batted away the arms and hands and parents. Meanwhile Molly blushed and hid her face in his chest, obviously overwhelmed by the attention from the group.

“When did this happen?” Lestrade asked.

“Yesterday,” Molly said. “We were married during the lunch hour.”

“I didn’t even know you applied for a license,” Sally began. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well, this was supposed to be the announcement of the engagement,” Molly began, “I mean we were going to do something proper, but then we were talking about how neither of us are really much for parties and even if we got married, we wouldn’t want a huge thing and everyone we’d want at the wedding was coming today anyway, then we realised that the register was open during lunch, so --”

Sally began laughing, “Cheers,” she said. “I’m happy for you Molls -- you got the man you wanted and I know he’ll make you happy. And Sherlock --” She fixed him with a serious stare, “Molly’s the best woman for you, so don’t you screw this up.”

“I wasn’t even thinking of that,” Sherlock retorted with an odd chuckle.

“She’s serious you know,” Lestrade added. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Sherlock said. “And I’ve thought about murdering John.”

“You better not be,” John spoke up.

“You’re my best friend,” Sherlock shot back, face twisted in confusion.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said sweetly, “You better behave.”

“OK,” Sherlock snapped, “I thought we all were friends here.”

There was an awkward pause, then Sally shrugged, “Meh,” she said, then finished her champagne.

Another uncomfortable silence settled over the room, which was broken by John. “So wait, you said Mycroft already knows?”

“Of course I do,” Mycroft’s voice floated into the room.

Sally froze for a moment as she watched him enter the room, full three-piece suit on (dove grey today, she noted, with a nice burgundy pocket square and tie), buss his mother on the cheek and glance over at the couple. _He looks good_ , a portion of her brain piped up. _Looks like he’s doing well._

 _Shut the fuck up brain_ , the rest of her said. Suddenly she wanted another drink. Maybe stronger than champagne. She could feel Molly’s eyes on her and she glanced over, mouthed the words, I’m fine, and schooled a neutral expression on her face.

“I apologize for being late,” he said, nodding to Sherlock and Molly. “Congratulations on the marriage. Sherlock, you can not do better than her. Molly, you will need all the skills in the world to deal with this one.”

John blinked. “How the hell did you know?”

“It is my business to know his business,” Mycroft replied. “Good to see you again John,” he nodded to Mary, “Mrs. Watson. Lovely to see you again.” The way he said that last sentence, Sally could tell he had his diplomatic face on.

He went around the room, greeting people, before his eyes settled on Sally. She smiled crookedly at him. “Mr. Holmes,” she said, willing her voice not to waver.

“Sergeant Donovan,” he replied as his eyes darted over her body. Then he continued on his rounds.

Inwardly, Sally breathed a sigh of relief, glad she survived her post-breakup interaction with Mycroft, but the gnawing ache that she’d been battling for the past month felt acutely worse than before.

~*~

“She looks nice,” seven-year-old Sherlock piped up as he poked around the detritus of Mycroft’s mind. “Bit more fit than before, but I think she misses you. She’s probably keeping busy with boxing so she doesn’t accidentally run into you at the chippy.”

Mycroft ignored the voice as he accepted a glass of champagne from Mrs. Hudson. His eyes skittered over to Sally, who was talking with Molly’s mother. She was wearing a bright blue silk dress, along with a pair of heeled sandals that made her legs look amazing (what was it about her legs -- that was a mystery he never had a chance to solve). He remembered the last time he had seen her in that dress -- Bruges, her head tilted back, neck exposed as she laughed at some story of his -- perhaps it was about the time Sherlock and he had fallen into the canal (Sherlock was ten and he was seventeen) after a quarrel and had to be fished out by the local law enforcement.

He breathed in deeply, then caught a whiff of orange blossoms, which he always associated with her. An unbidden memory of her, head resting on his chest as they lay in bed on a fine Sunday morning floated by followed by the memory of his hands tangled in her hair as she kissed him.

 _I can do this_ , he thought to himself, shoving the memories away. _It’s one party, then it’s back to work._

“Mykie!” his mother barked, bringing him back to reality.

He blinked. “Yes?” he asked sweetly. He could feel Sally’s eyes on him, almost sense the smile dancing on her lips as she realized what his mother’s nickname for him was. It took almost superhuman strength not to glance in her direction and smile at the realization that she had pried away another secret of his.

“You knew about this?” blue eyes bored into him. His father was thankfully involved in a conversation with Sherlock, so he didn’t have to deal with that reproachful expression. Daddy was always better at looking disappointed than Mummy, Mycroft thought. Mummy worked more on fury, whereas Daddy’s disappointment hurt more given the sadness in his expression.

He nodded.

“And you never told me?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It was not my news to tell,” he said diplomatically. “I knew Sherlock would announce it eventually, but I didn’t know until last night about the marriage. By then I knew about the party today, so I found it prudent to let them announce it instead of stealing his thunder,” he sipped the champagne and thinly smiled.

“I never realized Sherlock was dating someone,” she huffed, annoyed. “He could’ve told us ahead of time.”

“Ah, but that would take away the theatricality of this event,” Mycroft smiled. “And you know how he loves a show.”

~*~

“I’m so happy we finally got to meet,” Mrs. Hooper said to Sally. “Molly’s always said such nice things about you.”

“She’s also said the same,” Sally said.

“And isn’t this such a surprise?”

“Yes,” Sally said, suddenly wishing she had something stronger than champagne as her mouth twisted into an odd smile after she heard Mrs. Holmes call Mycroft, “Mykie.” She wanted to glance over him and grin, but she willed herself not to. “But I’m very happy for her,” she said. “I think that Sherlock will do his best to make her happy.”

“Are you currently seeing anyone?”

 _I would gladly punch someone in the nose for a glass of rum right now,_ she thought as she sipped her champagne. “No,” she said. “Work keeps me quite busy and I have a lot of new hobbies I’ve been exploring.”

“Beautiful woman like you?” Mrs. Hooper smiled fondly. “I’m surprised with that.”

Sally felt an arm on her shoulder and she glanced over to see Molly. “I hate to steal her from you,” Molly told Sally, “But I was wondering if you’ve met Mr. Holmes, Mum?” And with that, Molly grabbed her mother’s arm and moved her over to another corner of the room, where Sherlock and his father were talking.

Molly glanced back at Sally.

 _Thank you_ , Sally mouthed to Molly.

Molly smiled, then turned away. Sherlock noticed the Hooper women joining them, and his arm snaked around Molly’s waist as he pulled her close to him.

Sally looked around and noticed everyone embroiled in conversations. Suddenly hiding out in the kitchen seemed like a brilliant idea. Perhaps Molly had thought ahead and there would be a bottle of rum there.

~*~

“Did you know about this?” John asked Mary.

“The wedding? Oh no,” she said. “But I figured they were dating.”

“How?”

“Why do you think he spent so much time over at her flat? Or was out so much?”

John glanced over at her, reddening, “Well, I figured --” he began, “And how did you know he was at her flat?”

“Cat hair all over his suit,” Mary said, as she sipped her fizzy drink. “Really John, you didn’t notice the ginger cat hair? The man wears black suits, how did you not see those cat hairs?”

“Is everyone a genius around me?” he muttered.

Mary chuckled, “You just have excellent taste in company,” she said. “After all, you married me.” Her eyes followed Sally and Mycroft, watching their expressions. “Did those two ever --” her voice trailed off.

John blinked, “You mean Sally and Mycroft?” he looked at her and tried to suppress a laugh. “How on earth would those two meet? Mycroft doesn’t even like people.”

“Yeah, but watch them sometime, when they’re not looking at each other. It’s practically like an Austen novel, with the looks of longing he’s shooting her,” she sipped her drink, “Well, longing for him -- he gets this long-distance stare like he’s remembering something he wished he could forget.”

Sherlock breezed over to them, a small plate of cucumber sandwiches in one hand. “Thought Mary would like this,” he said, handing the plate to her. “I figured she would be hungry after all.”

Mary grabbed two of the tiny sandwiches and popped them in her mouth. “I’m starving,”  she quickly said. “So,” she leaned forward conspiratorially, “What’s up with Mycroft?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose he’s not completely over breaking up with Sally Donovan,” he began. “Which doesn’t surprise me really, he considered her quite special and did you see the looks he was giving her when they greeted each other?”

“I didn’t see anything,” John said.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Sherlock replied, sipping his drink. “You’ve never seen him actually like much less love someone. He gets all soppy -- trying to be a proper gentleman and such. Believe me, this is his version of Heathcliff raging about on the moors for Cathy.”

John began laughing.

Sherlock glared at him.

“Sorry,” John swallowed.

Mary giggled. “So what did you see of your brother?”

“Slight, but noticeable inhalation of breath, straightening of his spine -- even more if that was possible -- as if he was preparing himself for something he was dreading to experience,” Sherlock listed. “And did you see her? Same body language, quickening of breath and when he turned away there was a microexpression -- the angling upwards of the inner corner of her eyebrows, which usually indicates sadness.

“Not to mention, I was at Molly’s when Sally barged in saying that she needed her shoulder to cry on about a month ago, and that same day Mycroft nearly dislocated my shoulder at the mere mention of her.”

Lestrade wandered over, mouth filled with a cheese straw. “Good party,” he said, clapping Sherlock on the back. “Congratulations on getting married and all that.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Thank you Godwin.”

“Greg,” there was no malice in Lestrade’s voice.

John leaned over to Lestrade. “So did you know about Sally and Mycroft?” he quietly asked.

Lestrade nodded, “Yup,” he said. “Found out ‘bout a month ago. Apparently they were going out for a couple of months -- just kept it nice and quiet until he mucked it up after she was shot. He tried to have her transferred over to his department and she didn’t go for that -- especially since he didn’t tell her.”

John’s mouth became a tight line of annoyance. “How am I the last to know about this?” he said. “How on earth did my wife --” he motioned to Mary, “know about this before me? Why am I the last to know? I feel like I’m in an episode of Jeremy Kyle.”

“We’re not there yet” Mary’s smile was impish. “No one has said they’re pregnant,” she glanced down at her belly and patted it. “Well, except for me.”

“Ah, but the afternoon is still young,” John retorted.

~*~

“What the hell are you doing?”

Sally’s head whipped from the window to Molly, who was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Nothing much,” she replied. “Just wondering whether I can climb out this window and leave.”

“You’re going to break your leg in those shoes,” Molly observed. “And rip that gorgeous dress.”

Sally shook her head. “The bins are down there. That should break my fall. ”

Molly burst out laughing, then reached into a cabinet. “I know its entirely improper, given that this is a fancy tea party,” she said, pulling out a bottle of rum. “But I got it just in case you needed this, and it looks like you need it.” She opened the bottle and poured two glasses, then handed one to Sally. “Cheers.”

They clinked glasses and took a sip. Molly glanced over at Sally. “Are you all right?”

Cradling the glass in her hands, Sally shook her head. “I lied,” she said. “This is just a lot to process you know?”

Molly nodded.

“I knew something was happening, but I didn’t think that you’d be married now,” Sally began. “And it makes sense. It’s just -- it feels like your life is moving ahead, you’re going to be moving in here, there’s John and Mary so you’ve got your married friends and I’m just kind of stuck right now.”

“You realize this isn’t the movie Bridesmaids, yeah?” Molly bumped against her. “I haven’t given up my flat yet -- we’re still going to figure that bit out. You don’t live in another city, so we still can see each other.”

“I didn’t even get to give you a hen party. Now what am I going to do with the contact information for all the strippers with Belstaff coats?”

Molly sprayed rum across the table. “You’re kidding,” she giggled.

“Nope,” Sally grinned. “There’s a big demand for that now. You better watch your back when word gets out that you got married.”

“Why I need you,” Molly said. “Who else is going to support me through this and agree that Sherlock is a prat when I need to hear that? Who else am I going to watch Parks and Rec with? Who else can I discuss fashion with or send goats screaming to Bon Jovi videos to? Definitely not Sherlock. He’s not going to go see a Pentatonix concert with me.”

“You were right,” Sally said, “They’re not bad. Brilliant actually.”

Molly giggled. “You’re feeling a bit out of whack,” she said. “I don’t think it helps seeing Mykie here,” she imitated Mrs. Holmes’ sing-song tone. “I think you’re still in love with him.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “That ran its course,” she said. “I’m too old to do the whole ‘Love conquers all’ thing.”

“No, you’re right, what he did was definitely not good,” Molly said. “I’m just wondering if he’s rethought his position from before -- and if he did, would you be willing to give it another go?”

Sally didn’t reply, because the thought of Mycroft changing his position had never occurred to her. The man she knew quietly made decisions and then willed the world to change in his direction. She had never seen him waver course or change his mind on anything, so the entire idea that he would change his for her was completely foreign, yet flattering.

“Ah well,” Molly reached over for some cheese straws. Biting into one like a cigar, she handed one to Sally. “That’s not for you to worry about, since we’re not in his head,” she said, before leaning over. “But,” she whispered, “If it would make you feel better, we could go egg his car.”

Sally smiled. For the first time in a while, she actually felt like she was going to be all right, instead of coaching herself to survive another situation. She  toasted Molly and sipped her rum. “Molly Hooper, you’re my best friend.”

“I know.”

Before more could be said, Mrs. Hooper burst into the kitchen, grabbed the lemon cake sitting on the table and hauled it out into the sitting room. “Molly!” she barked, “Put the rum down and come to the sitting room.”

Sally and Molly eyed each other. “And now the parents seek their vengeance,” Sally remarked.

Molly burst out into peals of laughter as she grabbed her friend’s hand and dragged her out of the kitchen. “You know next they’ll be asking about grandchildren,” she whispered in Sally’s ear.

“Just get that faraway stare, wibble your lip a bit and say, ‘We keep trying --’ and they’ll leave you alone,” Sally muttered back.

Molly let go of her hand and joined Sherlock next to the coffee table. Everyone was clustered around the other side with their mobile phones at the ready as Sherlock brandished a knife.

“This is ridiculous,” he groused. “Why on earth do we have to do this. It’s a cake. That Molly baked under some illusion of tradition --”

“And inspired by Mary Berry,” Molly added, pecking Sherlock on the cheek.

“My point is that this is a useless tradition --”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” his mother barked, “You already denied me a wedding, so the least you can do is shut up, cut the cake and smile for the camera.”

He made a face. Sally, who was watching from the fireplace had to stifle a giggle.

“And you Molly Elizabeth Hooper -- you also owe me this,” Mrs. Hooper added. “I never even got to meet him before you wed him. Heaven knows you talked about him enough that it seemed like I would know him, but meeting him in person is a different matter. And your sister will kill you for not telling her.”

“Oh she knows,” Molly shot back, an evil twinkle in her eye, “I called her last night and let her know after we got married.”

“You mean she hid this from me?” Sally could picture the indignant glare from Molly’s mother.

“Yup,” the smile widened.

“You little --” her mother began.

“We’re cutting the cake now,” Sherlock interrupted, taking the knife and plunging it into the cake.

The shriek of “NOT LIKE THAT SHERLOCK!” from his mother could’ve shattered glass. After the parents settled down, Sherlock and Molly took a proper picture of the cake cutting. It was hilarious seeing how annoyed Sherlock was by the whole tradition -- even though he smiled, his eyes had a murderous glint to them -- similar to pictures of cats in Halloween costumes Sally had emailed to Molly. All in all, it was probably one of the best moments of the party.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have your mobile out to get pictures also,” Sally glanced to her side and saw Mycroft standing next to her, watching the entire fuss from everyone.

“Lestrade will email me pictures,” she said. “Besides, I didn’t feel like getting an elbow from Mrs. Holmes, who is jockeying for prime photographer position.”

There was a flicker of a smile on his face, “She can be rather overbearing at times.”

“Aren’t most parents?”

Before he could answer, Mrs. Holmes had approached him. “Now Mykie,” she said. “You’ve got to get in the family picture also.”

“Must I?”

For someone who was so short, she had a deadly glare, Sally observed, as she tried to hide her smile.

“And who are you?” Mrs. Holmes fixed her gaze at her.

Sally’s posture instantly straightened under the commanding tone. “Sergeant Sally Donovan, friend of Molly Hooper,” she said officiously. “I was invited today ma’am.”

Mrs. Holmes eyes squinted for a moment, then Sally suddenly found herself in a bear hug. _Do all mothers learn this?_ she thought to herself, as she found the air choked out of her.

“You’re the one! You’re the one who saved my boy,” she said, pulling back. Her eyes looked misty for a moment. “Thank you. I know he can be an arrogant one, but thank you for keeping his bloody hide alive.”

Sally stared at the ground. For some reason, she could feel everyone staring at her and suddenly she wished she had climbed out the kitchen window. “It wasn’t anything,” she mumbled. “Just doing my job.”

Mrs. Holmes stared at her, then glanced over at Mycroft. “Right then,” she said, grabbing her son’s arm. “We need family photos. So get over there.”

The entire Holmes family arranged themselves on the sofa, with Mary taking the picture for the family. Sherlock looked bored, Molly looked like she wanted a stiff drink, Mrs. Holmes looked proud and pleased, while her husband looked completely bemused by the situation -- as if secret weddings happened all the time in his family. Mycroft’s eyes locked with Sally’s and she sucked in a breath involuntarily because for a brief moment, she could see a hint of longing before the familiar mask of arrogance slid over his face.

She headed into the kitchen just as Mary was requesting people smile (“I am smiling,” she could hear Sherlock complain). Grabbing her glass of rum, she downed it in two swallows in an attempt to erase the memory of what she had just seen.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. Standing under the Speedy’s awning, he watched as the clouds rolled in. Sensing company, he lit another cigarette and handed it to Sherlock, who joined him under the awning. The two stood in silence for a bit, smoking and watching the street.

“You abandoned your bride to our parents?” Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock.

“Hardly,” he replied. “She’s currently holding court with Sally, Mrs. Hudson and Mary while our parents are plotting a family get-together with Molly’s family when her sister and her family come to visit,” Sherlock did a full-body shudder. “John and Lestrade are discussing something inane. I needed to get away from the discussion of the weather.”

“Ah,” Mycroft inhaled his cigarette. “Just so you know, this should considerably expand my powers in protection for Doctor Hooper, but I suspect you already knew that.”

Sherlock smirked. “There were other reasons for the marriage you realize.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “Sentiment.”

“You do realize you are a hypocrite for saying that,” Sherlock said. “After all, you’ve fallen prey to it also, and as far as I can tell, you are still in its throes.”

Mycroft inhaled. “If it wasn’t your wedding party, I would dislocate your shoulder right now,” he said. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Sherlock exhaled a puff of smoke and watched it dance in the wind. “Perfectly fine people do not threaten to dislocate shoulders at the merest hint of a former flame.”

“They do if they get annoyed with people asking about their mental well being,” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

There was another long silence as the cigarettes burned.

“Besides,” Mycroft began slowly, “Whatever happened ran its course.”

Sherlock began laughing.

“I fail to see what is so humorous.”

“How is it that you are smarter than me, but also so oblivious?” Sherlock chuckled. “Did you not see her physical reactions to you? Slow intake of breath, drooping upper eyelids, momentary loss of focus in the eyes? All are microexpressions of sadness. All of them in correlation with your presence -- more specifically when she would glance in your direction. She misses you.”

“So what if she does? Just because you miss someone doesn’t mean that you will go back if you think it’s imprudent,” he studied his cigarette. “I can’t make the promise she is requesting.”

“Really?” Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched. “You can not change your behaviors? Are you really that obstinate?” He clucked his tongue.

Mycroft thought it over for a moment. “Why would I want to do that?” he said slowly.

“Because you’d be happy for one brief moment in your miserable life?” Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance.  “Of course you are that stubborn. You’d rather be right and alone than with the one person you keep sending soppy looks to.”

“I did nothing wrong,” Mycroft replied. “I tried to protect her.”

“She’s not a pet. While you say you’re surrounded by goldfish, you’ve learned that people aren’t as simple as you believe -- or at least she isn’t. Be honest -- you like the fact that she defied you. If she was pliant to your every whim or easily manipulated, you would be bored and would have ended it without regret,” Sherlock grinned. “What was it? The first interrogation? Did she tell you to fuck off and that drove you mad -- the fact that one woman would not just willfully, but gleefully, rebel despite your best effort to control her?”

Mycroft sucked on his cigarette, annoyed at how perceptive his brother could be at times. He had a point, damn his smugness. Perhaps one of the moments when he loved her the most was her leaving him at Diogenes. He couldn’t help but respect her then -- even through the sorrow on her face, there was still an independence that impressed him.

The door to 221 opened and Molly stuck her head out. “There you are,” she said. “Come back up -- Mum and your parents are getting a little overbearing now. They’re asking about grandchildren.”

“You do realize that doesn’t make me want to return to the party,” Sherlock replied, putting out the remains of his cigarette.

“No, but they’re starting to bother Sally now and I’m worried she might try and climb out the kitchen window and break her leg. Your mum is threatening to fix her up with ‘some perfectly nice gentlemen -- or ladies if that’s what you’re into.’”

“Still not an incentive to return, because that actually sounds entertaining.”

Molly huffed a sigh, “Fine,” she replied. “If you do not come up there will be no head scritchings and I’m putting catnip in all your suits for Toby.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Molly fixed a hard stare on him, then turned to leave. Sherlock bounded after her and Mycroft could hear her giggle as he caught up to her.

The rain started to patter down. Sensing that a deluge was imminent, Mycroft headed back into 221B and upstairs, where people were getting ready to leave for the afternoon.

“So when is the honeymoon?” he overheard Lestrade ask.

“How soon can you leave?” Sherlock retorted.

Inside the flat, Molly was hugging people and saying goodbyes as Sherlock picked up his violin and began screeching on it to chase the well-wishers away. He was ready to go home -- the past three hours had left him feeling weary.

He felt Mummy’s hand on his arm. “I noticed the rain getting worse,” she began.

“And?”

“I think that you should offer Sergeant Donovan a ride home,” she said, a bit too loudly for his comfort.

“I’m fine,” Sally quickly spit out. “I can get a cab.”

Mrs. Holmes glanced over at Sally. “In that dress? Darling that’s silk and gorgeous. I’d hate for you to ruin that or those beautiful shoes while waiting for a cab,” she glanced over at Mycroft. “Mykie has a perfectly adequate car and it’s big enough for the both of you. It’s no trouble at all.  Unless you want to stay and discuss our next visit to London. We had so much fun at Les Miserables that we were talking about another musical -- perhaps Mamma Mia?”

Mycroft glanced over at Sally. Her eyes had gone wide and he could sense the terror emanating off of her in waves. He glanced over at Mummy. The glare had gotten harder. He could feel the smirk of amusement on Sherlock’s face and hear Molly’s giggle.

He swallowed. “I insist,” he said, hoping that he sounded cheerful. “Sergeant Donovan, it would be no trouble at all.”

“Great,” Sally said in a tone that was anything but that word.

Mycroft leaned down and pecked his mother on the cheek. “I know what you’re doing,” he hissed in her ear.

She pulled back, an innocent expression on her face. “Now Mykie,” she admonished. “I raised you to be a gentleman. And a gentleman would never abandon a lady in weather like this. Now go and be a good boy and wait downstairs for her.”

~*~

“Why the hell did she do that?” Sally lowered her voice as Molly and her said their goodbyes.

Molly shrugged. “It is starting to pour and your umbrella really isn’t going to do the job. And why not get a lift if possible? Even if it’s to the tube?”

“Because it’s Mycroft.”

“Look, if he feels nothing or you feel nothing, it’s just going to be an awkward car ride, nothing more, nothing less,” Molly said sensibly. “Or it’s an opportunity to snog him and see if there’s still something there. When’s the next time you’re going to make out in a Jaguar like that? Probably never. But I think talking is probably the wiser choice.”

“You’re evil you know that?” Sally chuckled. “I’m not snogging him.”

“You wish you could though,” Molly grinned. “At least you’re not going home soaking wet --” her eyebrows danced in merriment, “Unless --”

“Molly Elizabeth Hooper!” Sally exclaimed, giggling. “You pervert.”

The two women laughed, ignoring the curious stares from the stragglers. Molly leaned forward and hugged Sally. “You’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s only a car ride. But text me later -- I want to know what happened.”

“Thanks,” she said. “What are you doing for your sex holiday?”

“Sex-at-home-i-day,” Molly made a face. “Doesn’t have the same ring does it?”

Sally shook her head, “No,” she agreed. “We’ll keep working on it. But what are you doing?”

“Just took a couple days off from work. Nothing fancy,” Molly glanced over at Sherlock with a sweet smile. “Don’t need anything fancy. I’ve got him. You will call me later?”

“You sure I won’t interfere with all the sex you’re having?”

Molly blushed. “I’ll make time for this,” she said. “There is recovery time you know.”

“True,” Sally sighed. “Give me courage.”

“Go. If you don’t I think Sherlock might start doing physical displays of affection of increasing inappropriateness to chase people out,” Molly said. “Besides, the sooner you get it done, the sooner it’s over.”

Sally nodded, squared her shoulders and headed downstairs.

Mycroft was standing downstairs, door handle in his grasp. She could feel his stare on her, and it made her feel weak-kneed, knowing she’d be alone with him -- even if it was for a brief car ride.

“Shall we?” he asked.

She nodded and he opened the door, popped open his umbrella and ushered her into the waiting car.

~*~

It was her perfume that weakened him, Mycroft was sure of that. Otherwise he wouldn’t have behaved in the manner that he was.

Normally Sally didn’t wear perfume -- given her profession, Sally liked to keep things impersonal and the only scent he’d normally detect on her was a faint hint of orange blossoms and jasmine from the hair gel she liked to use to tame her curls. But today, she wore perfume. It was something citrusy and spicy that reminded him of warm Mediterranean nights. Knowing her, it was the kind of perfume she wore because she felt it was proper and also because it gave her confidence a boost. If there was ever a time when she needed that, it was now and all because of him.

Thank God the partition between the passenger and driver sides was up, he thought as he leaned forward to kiss her, pulling her into his lap as he whispered the words, “Please forgive me,” into her neck, her mouth, spreading the words across the angry pink scar where the bullet had grazed her (a rather impressive scar, part of his brain noted, but over time it would heal nicely). He wanted to lick the wound off, gnaw it off, erase it all and start over, back to before his foolish mistake, when there was nothing but the sweetness between them.

“-- Just let me off at the nearest tube stop,” Sally’s words jolted him back to reality, along with the touch of her hand on his.

Mycroft glanced over at Sally. “Hmm?” he stammered, trying to get his bearings.

Sally blinked, puzzled by his confusion. He never had that happen before, which irritated him. “You don’t have to do this,” she said, “Just let me off at the nearest tube stop. Your mum doesn’t have to be the wiser.”

“It’s no bother,” he said tightly. “Your flat is still a long walk from the tube stop. According to the forecast, the rain will not let up until later tonight. Your umbrella is inadequate.”

“Thanks,” Sally softly said, then settled into the seat and faced forward.

The scent of her perfume wound around Mycroft and the proximity of her body warmed his. The silence between the two of them was thick with unsaid words.

“Well,” Sally said after a long pause. “That was a nice party.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied, glancing over at her. “I have never had three hours feel like three years.”

Sally smiled. “It’s nice seeing you,” she began. “You’re looking well.”

“No,” Mycroft said.

“No?”

“I am not going to do this,” Mycroft said. “I am not going to pretend we are friends. We are not friends.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Oh.”

Mycroft’s hand slid over and grasped hers. He turned his body to face hers. “You fail to understand,” he began. “I do not want to be your friend because I respect you too much to deceive you. That is why I told you I couldn’t not interfere with your life. I have tried to forget you. I could not. Despite it being the wiser option, I do not want to forget you. Today’s gathering made that ache worse. I have been reduced to a thing that wants Sally Donovan and that is not friendship. Right now all I want is you, in my flat, in your flat, in my bed, in your bed, it does not matter as long as you are with me, and while I may not have friends, I am fairly certain friends do not want that of each other.”

He pulled away, running his hands through his hair, frustrated. “I am sorry for what I did. It was misguided and I promise you I will never do that again, whether you decide to resume our relationship or not. But we can not be friends.”

“Look,” Sally began, “If you’re just looking to scratch an itch, that’s normal --”

Mycroft shook his head, “It is most certainly not that,” he snarled, offended at the suggestion. “I am not some base animal that needs one night of senseless rutting. If it was that easy I would have taken care of this long ago. I need you. I love you. I don’t even know why, but I seek comfort in you and then you were gone. And it was because of an error I made and the fact that I refused to lie to you and pretend that I -- at that time -- could not interfere in your life.”

“And now?” she hesitated.

He smoothed his hair and fixed his stare on her. Judging by her reaction -- quickened breath, nervous twitch in her hands, gooseflesh on those lovely arms -- she was either going to climb onto his lap, or throw herself out of the car.  Neither was the optimal reaction. Mycroft took a deep breath.

“I will not do that again,” he began. “I can not promise that I won’t hate you getting injured, that I won’t worry about you or be furious if my idiotic brother drags you into a foolish scheme. But I will not take control of matters involving you without your consent. That I will promise.”

Now came the hard part, Mycroft realized. But what he wanted required a clearer head than perhaps what either of them were thinking at that moment.

“I’m not looking for an answer tonight,” he continued, “Because I realize that you are dealing with rather surprising news of your own regarding my brother and your friend’s announcement. I don’t want you to be with me tonight, then regret it later. I want you forever and that is not a decision made lightly. I will be at Codrophenia at the usual date and time. Give me your answer then.”

Sally nodded, “Fair enough,” she said, before reaching over and giving his hand a short squeeze. Even though she let go of his hand, her hand lingered near his. The rest of the brief ride passed in silence. Once the car stopped at her flat and the driver alerted them that they had arrived, Sally glanced over at him.

“Thank you,” she said and then she was gone.

Mycroft watched her alight the stairs to her building, the sway of her hips, the way her legs moved under the blue sheath, the halo-light glow around her head from the light diffusing around her curls, committing it all to memory. Even though the probability was good, that was only for this moment, he realized. Hopefully -- how he hated that word -- the odds would be in his favor in a week. There was nothing else he could do but wait.

~*~

_Forever_ , Sally mused. That was such a funny little word, much like love. It was both comforting and terrifying at the same time.

He wasn’t speaking just pretty words, unlike previous boyfriends, that Sally was certain. He wasn’t that type of person, which was something she had figured out after they had met two years ago.  A commitment like that was terrifying, not because he wouldn’t follow through, but because he would. Could she live up to the standards he was setting? Should she trust that whatever happened, one thing was certain -- he loved her, she loved him and the rest would be figured out as they went along? Could their love be enough? Was it strong enough?

Of course she could live without him, but the question was really whether or not she wanted to. And the answer was obvious, so obvious that for once, she didn’t feel the need to talk to Molly about her decision. Not to mention the fact that Molly was still on her sex-at-home-i-day (they never did come up with a better alternative), perhaps christening every single flat surface of 221b.  

_Note to self, make sure to ask if areas are safe to sit on_ , Sally mused as she got dressed Saturday morning and went for a run to clear the nerves out of her system.

He would be there, she thought as Beyonce and Frank Ocean’s Superpower filled her earbuds -- _I thought the world would revolve without us_. She knew he would keep his promises to her, even though he could be a slippery bastard to everyone else.

~*~

It had been a trying week for Mycroft Holmes. There was an incident in North Korea and then an case officer had a problem in Yemen and had to be extracted -- that was a bit more dodgy than what he anticipated, but it ended with the objectives obtained, so it was a good result. Not to mention, Mummy insisted on calling him and inquiring how he was doing. That was a painful conversation that he didn’t care to repeat.

Thankfully Sherlock was busy with his new wife, so at least he didn’t have to worry about his identity being appropriated for whatever schemes he had. But that wouldn’t last long, which caused Mycroft to note that he would need to change his security passwords soon to keep his brother out of his business.

Then there was Sally. Surprisingly as the week went on, he had become -- not exactly resigned to his fate, but more accepting of whatever would happen. He knew the balance of probability was in his favor, but that did not guarantee anything. But he had a belief -- another hated word, along with hope and faith -- that she would meet him there.

On Saturday, as promised, he headed to Codrophenia. It was a nice day -- a hint of Summer floating on the warm breeze. As he entered the shop, he noted she wasn’t there yet, which caused the knot of worry. But he made his purchase, stood in the window and waited.

He finished his meal, perhaps a bit faster than he intended, then placed another order. As he was paying for them, the bell rang on the door. Turning towards the door, he saw her --  in running gear, earbuds hanging loosely off of her fingers as she wound them around her mobile. She had a crooked smile on her face. To Mycroft she looked radiant and for a moment everything in the world felt perfectly aligned.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “But I took the liberty of ordering you your usual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe so many people thanks for this -- those who commented, those who left kudos, hell, those who even read it over and took a chance on this -- but I really REALLY have to thank GS Jenner for her help with this fic.
> 
> Honestly, without her beta work and her generosity in offering ideas and information, this wouldn't have been as much of a joy to write as it was. She's worth her weight in chocolate and her patience in proofreading and offering ideas -- from fashion to travel and food -- is just a huge reminder that while writing can be solitary, a good muse to bounce ideas off of is worth their weight in chocolate. Bruges wouldn't have happened without her, nor some of the better lines in this fic.
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading, commenting and offering support. I hope you enjoyed this.


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